


the breaking light

by maharlika



Category: Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Frostpussy, Hurt/Comfort, Jotunn Loki (Marvel), M/M, Past Relationship(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Recovery, Self-Harm, Sexual Slavery, Single Sex Jotnar, Vaginal Sex, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-23 10:40:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 46,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16617404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maharlika/pseuds/maharlika
Summary: A decade ago, Thor and Loki were lovers, destined to bring peace to their people through marriage. But when a war breaks out between their realms, they’re split apart. The last Thor hears of Loki, halfway through the war, is that he, along with the entire Jotun royal family, has been murdered in a military coup. When the war finally ends in an uneasy truce, Thor returns home to Asgard, where he is received with a warm welcome...and a gift from the King of Jotunheim. A Jotun sex slave, trained and broken in for his pleasure.Thor never thought he would see Loki again, and never like this.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Thorki Big Bang 2018. Thank you to Yami for the [wonderful art](http://lord-yamada.tumblr.com/post/180138849061/title-the-breaking-light-author), to Raven, She, Lena and Elsa for handholding and beta-ing. To Julia and April and Hannah and Aimee and Erika for listening to me whine about this fic for months. To Elsa, my love and my better half, for the long hours spent writing together over Skype, or at your table. To ravenbringslight and mscopperwires for helping me mod this event, and to all the authors, artists, betas and cheerleaders who participated and supported us. To the Thorki fandom! Thank you ♥!

PROLOGUE

 _Loki shifts uncomfortably in his court clothes. Through the shining ice walls of the_ valaisin _, the House of Light, he can see the snow flurrying outside. And here he is, stuck in the audience hall, the room too hot for his liking. It is for their guests, his father says._

_As much as Loki would like to feign disinterest, he cannot help but sit up straighter as the Aesir enter the room. Two of them, decked in the gold that Asgard is so fond of, are clearly more important than the others._

_Loki peers at them curiously, at their pale skin, so different from his deep blue, and their fair hair, and their lack of horns._

_There is an older man, with hair on his face and a serious look about him. The man is clearly here for Loki’s father. He directs his attention instead to the smaller Aesir, engulfed almost completely by a large fur coat._

_Loki knows of Asgard’s fondness for gold because he has read of it in his books, but looking at the Aesir before him now, he wonders if it is not because of their rulers’ coloring. Wisps of golden hair peek out from the hood of the smaller Aesir’s coat, and Loki is taken by the sudden urge to reach out and touch._

_“Odin,” Laufey says, snapping Loki out of his thoughts. “This is my child and my heir.” His father gently pushes him forward with a large hand on his back._

_“What’s his name?” the small Aesir asks, his unmodulated voice echoing, unrestrained, through the hall._

_“You can ask him yourself,” Laufey says, raising an amused eyebrow._

_“What’s your name?” The small Aesir looks towards Loki. “I’m Thor. Thor Odinson.”_

_“Loki,” Loki says primly._

_Thor’s brow furrows._

_“Just Loki?” he asks._

_“What more is there?” Loki asks, confused._

_“Lo-ki,” Thor says, as if testing the name in his mouth. He smiles and says, “Let’s be friends, Loki!”_

 

CHAPTER 1

 

They leave Loki on the floor of an empty chamber, naked, gagged, blindfolded, arms and hands bound behind his back. He could move if he wanted, but it would be a futile and useless exercise, and not worth the punishment. Time passes slowly. It’s a subtle kind of torture, the way Loki’s apprehensions and fears about seeing Thor again— _Master_ , his mind supplies, _master now. Remember your place, slave_ —give way to drugged, painful, humiliating arousal.

By the time that loud footfalls approach down the corridor, Loki can barely register them past the buzz of need coursing through him. Shivering and sweat-soaked, he struggles to find leverage, angry in one moment that they hadn’t bound his knees as well, so he would not have the freedom to _writhe_ like this, and then wishing feverishly in the next that they’d plugged him so he could have something to _fill_ his sopping cunt— _friction_ , he needs— _Gods—there is heat hovering above him, hands on his skin—his master, come to take his due—_ and everything in Loki keens, desperate to offer himself—

“Hushhh,” choked out in his master’s voice, so _familiar_. “Oh Gods, Loki. Loki. It’s okay, shh, it’s okay, let’s get you up—” hands on his shoulders, warm, and Loki cries out through the gag at the contact, flushing and shaking desperately.

The series of cursing that follows from his master’s mouth makes him tremble—has he displeased his master already, so quickly—but not even the threat of punishment can cut through the terrible haze of arousal. He sobs, as best as he can through the gag, tries to spread his legs, to beg in high, keening whimpers— _please, please_ —though he knows he doesn’t deserve it—

A hand rips the blindfold from his eyes, and through his tears, Loki looks up at the face of Thor Odinson, golden and beautiful as the day they’d first met—only—only now he is Loki’s master, and he is not allowed—how could he have _dared_ to look him in the eye? Fear lances through him, hot and painful—he shuts his eyes and turns his face into the floor— _yes, just like that, slut, like the Jotun bitch you are_ —

“Gods, Loki, Loki, look at me please.” Hands again, scrabbling at the back of his neck, where the—the clasp of the gag falls open at his master’s hands—Loki coughs, draws in gasping breaths that turn into wet, desperate sobs.

“Loki—”

“ _P-please, please, nnngh, ahh, m-master, please—”_ It’s insolent of him to even ask, to beg for it, like he deserves anything from his master—but maybe the Odinson will like it, will like the Jotun whore on his knees for him to use as he pleases. Loki attempts to pose himself in a form that is more pleasing—through his haze he remembers, so gratefully that he sobs in relief—that Thor used to enjoy taking him from behind, and maybe Thor will remember as well and take his pleasure as he once had—and if Loki is good—he shudders, sobs, aching, desperate— _no, no better not to expect, just be good, a good slut, good whore, Jotun fucktoy, good, please, please, please—_

Thunder crashes through air, terrible enough to shake the very walls of the palace, and Loki cries out, arousal forgotten for the moment as absolute fear grips him, and he falls back to the floor, pressing himself down as if he could sink into it, shaking and sobbing—arousal, fear, horror, shame, all coursing through him.

 _“Fuck_ ,” Thor grinds out as Loki sobs in terror, in desperate arousal, shuddering and trembling violently.

Thor reaches out, once more, to place his hands on Loki’s shoulders—but the Jotun only shudders and keens, naked skin sweating and flushed purple, his cunt dripping clear fluid down his inner thighs, pooling on the floor. All through it, Loki _pleads,_  hoarse and broken.

“What did they give you,” Thor says, desperately, as if Loki could even answer him through his drug-induced arousal. Instead of answering, Loki only writhes, turning himself from his front to his back—

“No, Loki, Gods—”

—to bare himself completely to Thor, back arched, shaking legs spread and drawn to his chest, his cunt flushed the deepest purple, face turned into the floor. A perfect offering.

“ _Master_ ,” Loki sobs, his cunt clenching with the force of it.

Thor stands up, horrified as his own arousal crashes through him, and stumbles his way out of the room.

—

In the end, it is not his master who comes to grant him peace, in his utter humiliation, but his second-in-command, the warrior whose hair Loki had, long ago, shorn away in spite.

He keeps his eyes shut, tries and fails to stop from keening and sobbing and begging as Sif kneels down beside him, thick plug in hand. She deals with him methodically—cuts the bindings from his hands and forces him to wrap his shaking hands around the plug.

“You will take pleasure from this until you are sated,” she says to him, and Loki shakes his head desperately, knowing he is not allowed to take his own pleasure.

“Your—your master commands this,” Sif says, voice barely a whisper, but it is enough.

As she leaves, Loki is too far gone to do anything but sob in relief, slide the plug into his cunt, clench and cry out and tremble through orgasm after orgasm.

—

Loki does not know how long he writhes on the floor as the drug makes its way through his system. When he is finally more lucid, he opens eyes exhausted from crying, and blinks painfully. It is still dark in the room. He shifts, keeping the plug within him just in case—in case his master returns and wishes to take him now, more sedate and less like a filthy, desperate whore.

He waits, passing in and out of sleep. Eventually, there are footsteps outside again, and the sound of the door opening. The loud footfalls of his master draw nearer. He tries to move himself, to rearrange his limbs and his body and present himself for his master, but he is weighed down by bone-deep exhaustion. He hears Thor sigh, and he knows that he should _beg_ for punishment, for having displeased him, for not being good enough. For having taken his own pleasure in his desperation even though he _knows_ that his body belongs not to himself. The words do not quite make their way out of his mouth, and he can only babble, incoherently, as Thor begins to _clean_ him.

A wet cloth is pressed into his oversensitive skin, and Thor shushes him, gently keeping him down with a hand on one shoulder. It does not make Loki feel any cleaner, but the action is soothing, and the touch is soft and gentle. Thor allows him to drift peacefully, doesn’t slap him awake and force him into paying attention. The cloth is wiped down his thighs—Loki spreads them obediently and tries not to cringe when his master curses—and then hesitant fingers touch the base of the plug inside him. Loki jolts, remembering that he isn’t here to be _coddled_ or taken care of, and he finds his voice, finally, to beg his master to take him.

“ _Pllleeeashe_ ,” he slurs out. He shudders and tries again when Thor’s fingers clench around his thigh. “Please, _m-master_ , let me please you,” he says, tries to make the words sound desperate and wanting, the way the handlers had beaten and raped into him, instead of just _tired_. Loki dares not open his eyes, but he can’t help his whimper of disappointment when Thor lets go of him. In the next moment, though, the plug is being pulled out of him—not in one swift movement, as he might have done, but in stops and starts, as his body clenches to pull it back in, and as his master seems to hesitate. The action is enough to send Loki into another spasm of orgasm—it _hurts_ now, exhausted as he is, and he sobs as the plug is locked even more tightly into his body.

“Loki,” Thor says, his hand wrapping around the base of the plug, his knuckles brushing the swollen folds of Loki’s wet cunt.

“ _Master,_ ” Loki whines, and _oh_ he wants so badly to be good, to prove that he can be good, even if it is only for this.

“Give it to me,” Thor says, voice trembling slightly, “Shhh, it’s, you’re good, you’re doing so well, give it to me, Loki.”

Loki sobs and nods desperately, and unclenches, finally, as Thor draws the plug out of him. Another orgasm racks through him and he sobs with it, shaking. In the aftermath, Loki sprawls, limp and exhausted, but careful to keep himself spread open for his master’s use. But Thor only rearranges his limbs so he is lying on his side, and Loki feels himself being lifted and set on something soft and warm. If only he had the strength to open his eyes…but he is quickly losing consciousness.

The cloth is passed along his skin again, and Thor gently rubs a thumb along the length of Loki’s horn, a touch that Loki feels through the length of his body.

“That’s it,” Thor murmurs, “Rest now, shh, that’s it.”

It’s an order Loki is only too happy to obey.

—

There is a commotion in the morning when Loki wakes up, finds himself sleeping in a _bed_ and scrambles to get out and onto the floor before his master realizes his indiscretion. Only, _his master_ is sleeping on the floor, in a pile of blankets and pillows, and is startled by Loki’s flailing.

Thor rolls to his feet, awake and alert immediately.

Loki’s teeth clack together as his knees hit the floor, and he tries not to shake as he presses his body to the floor in supplication. “Please,” he chokes out, “Master, I—”

Without warning, he is drawn into strong arms, pressed into Thor’s broad chest, surrounded by his scent: thunder and rain. The sensation and the action are so familiar that he loses himself for a moment, pressing back into Thor’s embrace.

“Loki,” Thor says, a note of mourning in his voice.

Loki breathes, swallows down the sobs caught in his throat, and lets himself be held, lets Thor rock them together on the floor.

But when Thor presses a knuckle under his chin to lift his head, Loki starts to shake again, limbs growing cold with dread. He cannot—he _cannot_ —how dare he look into his master’s eyes—

“Loki,” Thor says again, “Please. Look at me.”

Is this a test? Loki does not know. He cannot dare think of himself as an equal to his master, the Crown Prince of Asgard—but if he disobeys a direct order, the punishment will surely be harsh.

Slowly, Loki lifts his head, and tentatively meets Thor’s eyes, blue as the summer sky, but brimming with tears, tinged red from crying or exhaustion. He cannot help laying a hand on Thor’s cheek, once so beloved, mouth opening to speak his name. Almost immediately, he catches himself and claps a hand to his mouth, bowing his head as much as he can while Thor refuses to let him go, mind gone blank with terror.

“Master,” he says, trembling again, forcing the words out, “This slave apologizes for its impertinence. I, I beg you to, to punish me as you see fit.”

“No,” Thor says, his voice a rumble of thunder, “I will not. Loki, I swear to you, no harm shall come to you by my hand, nor by the hand of anyone who does not wish to feel my fury.”

Loki trembles _harder,_  shaking his head. “I—this slave—”

“You are no slave, Loki,” Thor says. “And I have no intention of treating you as one.” Slowly, he presses his knuckles between Loki’s shoulder blades, drawing a line down his spine. “You are Loki, of Jotunheim, and you are its rightful king.”

A whimper shivers itself out of Loki’s throat, but his body begins to grow limp as Thor continues to stroke him, gentling him through the worst of his shaking.

“I know not what has happened in our years apart,” Thor says, slow and soft, “But I will make things right.”

“As it—” Loki shudders and swallows down a keening whimper, “As it pleases you, master.” It is all Loki can say. He cannot argue, cannot even wrap his mind around Thor’s actions and intentions. It is the one thing he knows for certain, now. Thor is his master, and if he wants to hold Loki and soothe him, then it is not his place to resist.

 “I would appreciate it if you could stop calling me that,”—Loki stiffens—“but I understand if it makes you feel safer, for now.”

Loki swallows and nods. “Master,” he says again, but presses himself deeper into Thor’s hold, sighing with relief when Thor’s arms tighten. He lets his mind go blank, lets his body go pliant. He can be good, obedient.

After a while, Thor says, “Loki, we…we have much to discuss, but maybe after breakfast? And a bath.” He still does not pull away, one hand now stroking Loki’s hair while the other is draped across his back. Loki has barely kept himself from weeping at the contact. How long has it been since he was held like this, with no intention to hurt him or to forcefully draw pleasure from his body?

“I can draw the bath for you, master,” Loki says, bowing his head, finally more calm and lucid. He is fortunate, indeed, that his master seems to be kind, willing to overlook his failures. He will endeavour to be better, to show his gratitude.

Thor presses a palm to Loki’s cheek, drawing him up to make eye contact. Loki goes easily, now. When he meets Thor’s eyes, his master seems pleased.

“Draw one for yourself, and take as much time as you want. I have to speak with the steward, but I’ll join you for breakfast,” Thor says. His thumb strokes the kin-line high on Loki’s cheekbone.

“As it pleases you, master,” Loki replies. In a surge of courage, he turns his face and presses a kiss to his master’s palm. Warmth spreads through him when Thor responds with a kiss to his forehead.

—

Steam rises from the bathing pool. The water from the taps is too warm for his Jotun physiology, but Loki has learned to endure it; slaves have no time to waste waiting for water to cool. And though Thor had told him to take his time, Loki knows it is unthinkable to have his master wait on him.

He cleans himself methodically, plunging into the pool and scrubbing off the sweat and come from his body. He closes his eyes, feeling the familiar prickle of humiliation settle into him as he recalls how he had fucked himself on that plug. How his master had not even taken any pleasure in Loki’s body. _I have no intention of treating you as a slave_ , Thor had said.

Apprehension curls in his stomach at the idea of Thor rejecting him—if he has no intention of using Loki as a slave, does that mean Loki is to be used by other people? His master has spent all these years leading an army. There would be no lack of people wishing for a pleasure slave to see to their needs there. The soap slips from his hands as he squeezes it too tight, all breath going out of him. He is no stranger to servicing many people at a time, and certainly no stranger to cruelty or humiliation, but the thought of being an army whore, of being fucked by soldiers dripping with the blood of his people, fills him with a deep, dark dread.

It makes his hands shake, this uncertainty, this failure to understand what his master has planned for him. Better not to dwell on it, better to focus on lathering himself with soap, cleanse his skin, his hair, his cunt—after a moment of consideration, he slides two fingers into himself, to stretch himself in preparation (though he knows, with his master’s size, it will barely ease the way).

Besides, he tells himself, he has no choice in this matter at all. But if he is good, if he is good, maybe Thor will keep him. He had held Loki for so long, this morning, had not even punished him for sleeping in a bed or addressing him by name.

He can be good. He _has_ to be. Thus resolved, Loki rinses himself off and rises, wringing water out of his wet hair as he goes. He vaguely misses the ability to dry himself and dress himself with seidr, but brushes the thought aside as quickly as it comes.

 _Remember your place, slave_. _Slut, whore, Jotun bitch_. _Nithing_. The words make him tremble, but it is important to remember them. He breathes and forces his twitching muscles into place: head bowed, but shoulders straight, careful to keep his body open, vulnerable. He has nothing to hide, is not _allowed_ privacy like a free man.

Would his master rather have Loki come to him on his knees? Thor’s footsteps at the door force him into a decision. The tiles hurt much more than the carpet of his master’s bedroom when Loki drops to his knees, but he swallows against the pain and forces his body into a complete supplication.

“Loki, are you—oh,” his master says. Has he made the wrong decision? Thor is silent for a few tense moments, drawing away from Loki’s prone, still-dripping figure, and then coming back. Loki dares not lift his head. _Don’t cringe_ , he tells himself, _don’t flinch away_ , when the heat of Thor’s body draws close. A hand wraps around his arm and draws him up, to Thor’s side.

He flinches anyway, and forces himself to freeze. _Stupid, so stupid, he will think you do not want his touch_.

Thor drapes something on top of him, warm and fuzzy—a towel?

“You’ll catch your death if you walk out into the cold naked,” Thor says, sounding practical.

“I’m Jotun; it doesn’t bother me,” Loki replies automatically. A beat, then his eyes widen, and he brings up his hands to his mouth, knees weak, but Thor pulls him up before he can kneel and prostrate himself.

“Ah, true, that was a foolish suggestion on my part, wasn’t it?” Thor says. He doesn’t sound angry. In fact, he sounds—amused?

“Master,” Loki chokes out.

“It’s good to see you are still more sensible than I am, but it’s probably still best to be dry, yes?”

Before Loki can answer, Thor is pushing him out of the bathing chamber. “Go, go, get dressed, there are clothes for you on the bed. I’ll go for a quick soak and be out in a moment.”

“As it pleases you, master,” Loki gets out in a hurry before Thor smiles at him and closes the door.

He draws the towel over him and dries himself off quickly, still shaken from his own impulsive reply. Thor hadn’t seemed angry, but Loki knows it’s only a matter of time before he’s pushed too hard. What has gotten into him? Maybe all Thor is waiting for is one more step out of line, so he can give Loki away. No one wants a defective, incompetent, foolish slave, who constantly runs his mouth.

He shakes himself. Get dressed, his master had commanded. A simple enough task, and yet Loki has been standing in place, frozen, instead of obeying. He walks over to the bed.

Instead of the sheer, translucent robes that have become Loki’s attire as a pleasure slave, laid out on the bed is a traditional Jotun _kjalta_ , in dark green. When Loki reaches out with shaking hands to touch it, the material is finer than anything he has been allowed to wear since his enslavement, and terrifyingly familiar. His breath catches in his throat when he feels, with the painful burn of yearning, the seidr running through the cloth. Seidr that _Loki_ had woven, a decade ago.

Before he can lose his nerve, he draws the skirt around his waist, clinches the belt tight and tries to get his breathing under control. It doesn’t fit like it used to, years ago, the material slipping down his starved frame, but it is, unmistakably, _his_.

When Thor emerges from the bath, some time later, Loki cannot even move to kneel, even when everything in him screams to do so.

“Ah!” Thor exclaims, “It still fits. That’s very good. Though I think we have to fatten you up a bit, Loki.” He beams, though it looks like it takes him effort to do so, then quickly turns to rummage around in his closet and pull on a pair of trousers.

Against all good judgment, Loki opens his mouth and says, “You kept it.”

Thor turns to him, and Loki finally drops to his chest and knees on the floor, entire body trembling. Vaguely, he is aware that he’s started crying. It is too much, now. He has spoken twice out of turn, has dared to address his master as if they were equals, did not prostrate himself as he should have done the moment his master stepped into the room.

He should be begging now, he knows, he deserves to be _flogged_ , deserves to be beaten or be made to spend a night servicing the Einherjar. And yet the only things coming out of his throat are wrenching sobs. He tries to keep quiet, to stifle his noises, but there is nothing to be done for the tears that spill into the carpet.

“Oh, Loki. Dear one, of course I kept it, of course. I thought you lost to me,” Thor says, voice thick with grief. He kneels on the floor and draws Loki’s head to rest on his thigh. Loki can only lay there, shaking, crying, hollowed out and wrung dry, unable to think past the terrible sorrow in his chest. And through it all, Thor strokes his hair and murmurs gently to him, wiping away his tears, tracing the kin-lines that run in a semi-circle across Loki’s brow.

—

If servants come into the room while Loki has his miserable, impudent crying fit on the floor, he does not notice. Only that, eventually, Thor presses something against his lips, sweet and cool, and Loki opens his mouth, chews and swallows. This, he can do. A failure he may be in so many other things, but Loki knows how to be fed, how to thank his master with the grateful graze of teeth and the flick of his tongue on the tips of Thor’s fingers, kisses on his knuckles, a nuzzle into his palm.

He is fed grapes, apple slices, soft bread and cheese, strawberries, even mangoes, bursting with golden flavor in his mouth. When Thor lets him sit up for a drink of cool water, Loki tries not to be too greedy. Thor refills his cup, and lets him drink his fill.

“Thank you, master,” Loki says, voice a mere whisper, after Thor has taken the cup back.

“You’re very welcome,” Thor says. He lays a hand on the side of Loki’s neck and strokes his jaw with a thumb, and sighs when Loki leans into the touch.

“I apologize for my behavior, master,” Loki is finally brave enough to say. “Please punish me as you see fit.”

It is not nearly enough. He bows his head and tells himself that Thor has been kind so far, that maybe Loki’s punishment will not be overly cruel.

Thor’s hand twitches. Loki closes his eyes and waits for the blow.

Before his master can speak to deliver Loki’s punishment, however, a knock on the door draws his attention away. Loki flinches and sinks lower, bowing until his forehead touches the floor.

“Come in,” Thor calls out.

The messenger who comes takes in the scene in front of him—the crown prince clad only in trousers, his Jotun pleasure slave in a royal _kjalta_ , the mess of blankets and pillows and plates of food on the floor—and chooses to make no comment.

“Your highness,” the messenger greets. Thor waves a hand for him to proceed.

“General Tyr requests your presence in the Council. He says…”

Thor groans. “Yes, yes, thank you,” he says, wiping a weary hand down his face, “I’m late, aren’t I? Gods. Yes, I’ll be there.”

“Your highness.” The messenger nods, and turns on his heel to leave.

Thor sighs. Loki is still bowing, frozen, but goes when Thor gently leads him into sitting upon his knees with a hand on the back of his neck.

“I’m sorry, Loki, I promised you we would talk, but…”

Loki barely stops himself from protesting, stricken that Thor would even deign him worthy of an apology. He sneaks a look at his master’s face, gaze skittering briefly on the displeased turn of his mouth, but dares not meet his eyes.

Thor draws Loki up with him as he stands. “You can stay here, in my room, and I’ll be back as soon as I can. Everything is free for you to use. You can take another bath, if you want, or use the bed. There are books in my library and you’re free to use them as well…” Thor takes a deep breath, and puts his hand on Loki’s shoulder. “Is that okay?”

Is it _okay_? It is unbelievable and impossible. He wants to beg Thor to hurt him, to remind him of his place. He wants to press himself to the floor and kiss Thor’s feet.

“As it—” Loki swallows, “As it pleases you, master.”

“Of course. Right,” Thor says. Loki closes his eyes against the ache of loss when Thor’s hand falls from his skin as he turns to go.

—

They had been lovers, once. Almost a decade ago, before the bloodshed, before they found themselves on opposite sides of a war neither of them wanted.

They had been lovers, equals. Thor had sparred with Loki’s brothers; Loki had taught Balder how to woo Nanna. There had been talk of marriage. There had been talk of children, of shared thrones, of their realms in peace, prosperous.

Now, Loki is a broken, cowering thing, and Thor’s mind will not cease to think upon his trembling form on his knees. His body desperately displayed for Thor. The way the word _master_ fell from his lips in a whimper.

Before Thor has realized it, he has arrived at the Council.

When he raises a hand to push the door open, he finds that he is trembling, his heart pounding too loud in his ears. He has spent nearly a decade at war, and no skirmish, no battle has left him so wounded as the sight of Loki, enslaved and tortured.

 _His_ Loki, his beautiful, proud, strong, wilful Loki.

The knife in his heart twists deep, reaching a part of him he thought he had finally put to rest, all these years since Loki’s death. But Loki is not dead, only enslaved, made into some whimpering pet who can barely be in Thor’s presence without shaking like a leaf in the deepest of Jotunheim’s winter.

He feels as he might fall to his knees in grief, might rend his own heart in sorrow.

But he cannot.

Thor closes his eyes, takes a deep, shaky breath, and composes himself.

Inside him is the slow burning of a furious anger, deep and molten, the center of a lightning bolt waiting to crash.

_—_

_It is a bright spring day when the war breaks out._

_They are lounging in Frigga’s gardens, Loki’s head in Thor’s lap as Thor braids his hair. They are in loose tunics, their trousers folded up to their knees._

_Loki circles a hand around his ankle, rubbing the bone there, and asks him what they would name their children._

_Thor looks up as a messenger comes running towards them, the names of their would-be children disappearing like ash in the wind. Jotunheim has invaded Midgard, the messenger pants, and Loki bolts to his feet._

_They are barefoot. Fresh, green grass sticks to the soles of Loki’s dusky, blue feet. It is something Thor will remember for years to come._

_In Thor’s chambers that same afternoon, they fight a war of their own; it is a familiar argument between the two, but now they find a chasm has grown between them._

_“You must return the casket to Jotunheim,” Loki demands, “My realm is falling apart and my people seek safety on Midgard, Thor, not war!”_

_“Their actions suggest otherwise! They wreak havoc upon Midgard and you would have me do nothing,” Thor growls. A bolt of ice called from Loki’s hands streaks dangerously near Thor’s ear to crash into the wall behind him._

_“If it is war you want, Odinson, then you shall have it,” Loki says, voice deathly calm._

_Thor breathes heavily, clenching his fists as lightning crawls up his arms._

_“No,” he chokes out, finally. “Beloved,” he whispers, raising his head to meet Loki’s eyes. “No.”_

_Loki makes a broken sound, his icy composure crumbling as he stumbles across the room to press himself into Thor’s arms._

_“Beloved,” Loki whispers, cradling Thor’s jaw with his hand. “I will make things right. I swear it, my love.”_

_“Stay,” Thor begs, “Stay here, with me, and we will find a way to fix this together.”_

_“I cannot,” Loki says, mournful, “I must be with my people. My place is with them, but my heart is with you. Always, Thor. Beloved. My dearest heart.”_

_Thor cannot let go; his limbs are heavy with dread, with sorrow. Loki kisses him softly, and then wrenches himself out of Thor’s arms._

_He always has been the braver of us, Thor thinks._

_When Loki slips into the shadows between time and space and disappears, Thor feels an emptiness so great his body cannot carry it. He sinks to his knees, and does not stand for some time._

_The next time Thor sees Loki is on the field of battle, raining down icy seidr upon the armies of Asgard._

_—_

_Thor feels it the moment Loki enters his tent._

_On his knees, staring at the fire, he does not cease his prayer: “I bid you take your place in the halls of Valhalla, where the brave shall live forever. Nor shall we mourn but rejoice…”_

_Loki’s voice joins his at the end, “For those that have died the glorious death.”_

_His lover closes the flaps of the entrance behind him, hushing the winds outside and leaving Thor silence._

_“I am so sorry,” Loki says, soft where there is no other sound aside from the crackling of the magical fire._

_“Why have you come?” Thor asks. Sitting hunched over on the bed, he looks down at his hands, weary from war. Blood dries in the lines of his palms. Jotun blood, the blood of Loki’s people._

_“I loved Balder dearly,” Loki says._

_At the sound of his brother’s name, Thor’s hands clench, his heart rending in sorrow._

_He sobs, once, low and broken, and feels Loki’s hand on his shoulder as Loki kneels on the ground to draw him into an embrace._

_“Beloved,” Loki sighs, mournful._

_“This war must end,” Thor chokes out. His hands scramble against Loki’s back. “The people, the villages, Loki, we cannot—”_

_“I know,” Loki hushes, “I know. I am speaking to my father, trying to convince him to treat with Odin.”_

_“We have driven your armies out of Midgard,” Thor says, “the only fight left is here on Jotunheim. If this war is to end, it must end now.”_

_“He is listening to me, I know he is, but many of his warriors and bannermen thirst for war still. If his position weakens, I fear—I fear there may be rebellion.”_

_“Are you safe?” Thor asks. “If you are in danger, I will vouch for you on Asgard—”_

_“My place is with my people, Thor. And I have killed too many of yours to be welcome again in your home. Even if this war ends, I fear we will never—never be allowed to be together.” Loki’s breath hitches in pain._

_“I will be King,” Thor says firmly, “and I will take whomever I wish as my consort. And it will be you, beloved.”_

_As one, they stand, still locked in an embrace._

_“Take me to bed, my love,” Loki whispers, cradling Thor’s face in his cold blue hands. He sweeps his thumbs across Thor’s cheekbones._

_Thor takes Loki’s hands and kisses his palms. He leads Loki to bed, and lays him down gently._

_“I have missed you dearly,” Loki murmurs, when Thor has carved a place for himself in Loki’s body._

_“Beloved,” Thor groans, and comes, and presses his face to Loki’s neck and weeps._

_In the morning, when he wakes, Loki is gone._

_A week later, Thrym executes the entire royal family of Jotunheim in a coup._

—

“Ah, here he is, Asgard’s golden son! Were you enjoying yourself with the Jotun whore, my prince?” General Tyr, asks him, when he has sat down at the War Council. There’s a rumble of laughter, some of it uneasy, among the assembled members.

Thor’s hands jerk with sparks of lightning. Across the table, Sif meets his eyes and shakes her head.

“Loki is a prince,” Thor says, voice deathly calm, “and he will be treated as such.”

“My Lord Thor,” Bragi implores, “his own king has cast him down. His status as a _nithing_ in his own realm—“

“Have care how you speak,” Thor says, a warning.

“He is a war criminal on Asgard!” Tyr barks.

“And I am one on Jotunheim!” Thor says.

“All we are saying,” Idunn soothes, “is that Loki’s status…is tenuous. We would do well not to offend Thrym, not with peace so newly-won.”

“ _Offend_ Thrym,” Sif scoffs, “he offends _Thor_ with his actions. Offering Loki as a slave is clearly meant to insult our prince!”

“Thrym is a usurping snake,” Thor growls, “who murdered and enslaved his own family to pave his way to the throne. Loki is Jotunheim’s rightful heir and I mean to free him—“

“And so you would send Asgard to war again for the sake of your once-lover,” Odin interrupts.

Thor’s jaw tightens.

“I know as well as anyone the horrors of war,” he says softly, in the sudden silence of the room.

“Then you would do well to keep from insulting our new ally,” Odin says firmly. “Jotunheim has upheld its part of the treaty. Its king is an…unsavory character, I will concede that. But we cannot afford to be dragged into a war again.”

“I am not the warmongering boy I once was,” Thor says. “And I would not plunge our realm into war for the sake of a single person.”

“And yet that is exactly what your actions would accomplish, my son,” Odin says, his one eye focused on Thor.

“The fact of the matter is this: Loki’s sentence here is his punishment. It must be carried out. He is a slave, not a prince,” Bragi says.

“And why must Asgard carry out Jotunheim’s punishments? If you see what they’ve—what they’ve _done_ to him,” Thor says, his voice shaking.

“Savages, the lot of them,” Tyr says.

“Today’s order of business is on Midgard,” Odin says firmly. “Lady Fenja, your report?”

As the council settles into order, Thor slumps heavily in his chair and doesn’t try to control the lightning dancing around his fingers.

“My Lord, as per the treaty, Jotunheim has evacuated its military camps on Midgard entirely…”

War, Thor thinks, or Loki’s freedom. Surely, there must be a way to prevent one while garnering the other. Surely, there is a way out of this. There must be.

Thor looks up and tries to meet Frigga’s eyes across the table. She sits with one hand folded atop the other on the round table. Her place is beside Odin, as his most trusted adviser.

It is only after the Council Meeting that Frigga carefully takes Thor’s arm and bends their heads together. She leads him down the hall, to an alcove where they will be unbothered.

“Is he—” she begins, her voice thick with worry.

“Mama,” Thor chokes out. “He is not—himself. He—they—”

“Oh, my poor boys,” Frigga whispers, cradling Thor’s cheek. “Be good to him, my son, be kind. He will need you. Take him to me when you are ready.”

Thor nods, blinking away the tears that threaten to spill from his eyes.

“I will do my best. He is badly hurt. His mind—his soul. Mother...I fear his seidr has been taken from him.”

Frigga closes her eyes against her horror. “We must have faith that he can heal, my son. For now, he must be kept safe. Stay with him. He needs you.”

“I will,” Thor swears. “I will not forsake him.”

—

The first thing Loki does after Thor has left the room is rip the _kjalta_ from his hips and throw it away as far as possible. He immediately curls up on the floor in a supplicant position, falling into a slave’s headspace to steady himself, to drown out the incoherent confusion in his mind.

 _Slave, whore, slut. Say it, slave. Jotun bitch, only good for a fucking. You belong on the floor. Made for fucking, just a hole to be used, say it, say it, you are nothing, nothing, nothing._ He lets the words sink into his bones, crushing every other thought in his brain.

He reminds himself, numbly, of his training in the pleasure houses of Sakaar: how futile his struggling had been when they’d carved and burned runes into his flesh to cull his seidr from him. How they’d taught him to take pleasure in his violation, to crave it. He remembers his master crooning into his ear, that he was a _good boy, good slave, good slut_.

 _Jotun nithing_ , he reminds himself, pressing himself into the floor. He reminds himself of these moments: bowing so low his horns would scrape the floor, a mere touch on the shoulder enough to have him falling to his knees, being taught that anyone was allowed access to his cunt, his ass, his mouth, his cock, having his legs kept spread open with chains, unable to move, being fucked for hours on end with no rest, being made to _beg_ —

_But Thor—_

He sobs, low and horrified,  _no_ , _no,_   _no_ , _no_.

And still the thoughts come unbidden, quick and terrifying:

 _But Thor,_ _but Thor, but Thor. But he held me and he touched me and told me—_

_But Thor touched me gently and fed me from his hands and let me drink—_

_But Thor spoke to me kindly even though I am a disgusting, degenerate whore—_

_But Thor let me weep and stroked my hair and washed me in my depravity—_

_But Thor did not forcefully take his pleasure from me even when it is his due—_

Loki falls out of his supplicant position without thinking, and crawls into the closest corner, letting the walls steady him. He has to _think_ , he has to _think_ . He hasn’t _thought_ in so long, not properly, not things that weren’t tortured into him. He gasps, shaking desperately, pushes against the wall to remind himself that he hasn’t trembled himself out of existence.

He shakes, and he shakes, and he _shakes_.

And when he is done shaking, when he has exhausted all his tears and the circling thoughts of _Jotun whore_ and _But Thor_ have tired themselves out, Loki unwinds stiff arms from his knees and looks up.

He blinks. He is in the room of the Crown Prince of Asgard, one of the most powerful men in all the Nine Realms. A man who still treats him kindly, despite the war, despite his status as a slave. A man whose soul he once knew as well as his own.

A man who has _loved_ him—

—the thought is so _horrifying_ and _forbidden_ that Loki cries out and clenches his hands in his hair, as if the pain will make the thought go away. And yet—and yet is it not the _truth_? Was that not something they’d jeered at him while they tortured him? That he had been a prince— _Gods, Gods—_ a _prince_ —and the golden son of Asgard had _loved_ him—

“No,” Loki says out loud, trying to cut off his thoughts, “ _Gods, please, stop._ I—I—I am a _whore_ , J-Jotun and _filthy_ and I am n-nothing. Nothing but a hole—to—to _fuck_ , nothing, nothing, _please_.” He chokes out the degradation to himself, rocks himself back and forth until he feels like he can breathe again.

He is a slave, and Thor is his master, and the best Loki can hope for is his kindness. _Yes,_ he thinks, _that’s right, you don’t deserve it, but you’ll beg for it and you’ll be good and obedient and you will please him_.

_Yes, that’s right._

Loki could be so good for him. Loki _knows_ how to be good for him. He _will_ be good for him.

He has been going about this _wrong_ , stuck with the memories and lessons of his old masters and forgetting that he belongs to _Thor_ now. And there is nothing Loki can do about being a broken, worthless whore, but perhaps he still remembers how to be—how to be _pleasing,_ in a way that Thor will like.

_Yes, good. What did Thor like?_

Thor liked him in his old clothes. He crawls across the room to where he’d thrown his _kjalta_ , and puts it on again, more slowly this time, ignoring how the seidr-weaving releases the lightest of sparks against his fingers. Thor had been amused when he spoke out of turn—maybe not too much of that, but a comment here and there will please him. And—and Thor will like it, perhaps, if he smiled—and as he thinks this, his lips twitch into the trace of a smile, stretching muscles more accustomed to taking cock into his mouth. He touches his fingers to his cheeks. He will have to practice.

 _There_ , Loki thinks, smoothing down his _kjalta_ , _that wasn’t so bad, was it_? His first step. His first step will be to make his master smile.

_Yes, he can be good and make Thor smile._

A laugh bubbles out of him before he can stop it, mirth filling him to the brim as he realizes that he’s just come up with a _plan_.

It’s pathetic, really, but as he raises himself up to stand on shaky legs, Loki feels a tiny seed of hope in his chest.

—

When Thor returns to his chambers, it is a little after noon. His chambers are clean and spotless, the mess from earlier in the day cleared away. He’d specifically ordered no more servants to enter his rooms—but, of course, what use was there for a servant when there was a trained slave already in there? His eyes alight upon the figure kneeling on the floor, near the fire.

And _oh,_  Thor realizes with burgeoning happiness, Loki is _reading_.

He knocks on the door jamb in greeting, gently. Despite this, Loki flinches and presses himself to the floor.

Thor walks in great strides across the room, and offers Loki a hand up. After a moment, Loki places one slim blue hand on Thor’s, and rises.

“I see you found something to read,” Thor says, smiling.

“Master,” Loki says in greeting. “I—” he starts, then stops, closing his eyes tight. Thor sees the mild tremble that shakes through him, but waits for Loki to gather his words.

“I—I thought it would be unwise to deny your kindness, master. So I—” he looks down at the book in his hands. Before Thor can reply, Loki blurts out, “I’m sorry if I displeased you,” and stands there, knuckles turning pale around the spine of the book.

Thor smiles. He reaches out to touch Loki’s hands, rubbing them gently.

“I’m very glad,” he says. “Will you tell me about what you read over lunch?”

“As it pleases you, master,” Loki breathes. “And I—I would like to do that. As well.”

“Wonderful. Thank you, Loki,” Thor says, beaming. And then, to Thor’s amazement, Loki looks up from under his lashes, just a blink, red eyes making contact with Thor’s before he looks away. Slowly, Loki’s lips curve up in a small, tentative smile.

—

Loki follows Thor to where lunch is set in his personal dining room. He trails a few paces behind his master, not daring to walk beside him, as an equal would.

When Thor sits at the table, Loki neatly folds himself to his knees by his chair.

“Loki,” Thor says softly, “Will you please sit beside me?”

Loki goes rigid with tension, his hands curling into fists on his lap. His master wishes for him to sit beside him. On a _chair_ , when his place is on the floor, at his master’s feet.

“Thank you,” Thor says, when Loki slowly gets to his feet, swaying.

Loki reaches out to touch the chair next to Thor with the pads of his fingers. Slowly, his hand curls around an ornate, wooden armrest.

“Master,” Loki starts, then stops.

Thor stands, and Loki flinches. His master comes over and pulls out the chair.

“Please,” Thor says, “Sit.”

Loki sits.

“Thank you,” Thor says again.

He goes back over to his chair, pulls it out, sits. Shuffles closer.

The meal prepared for them is standard, for Asgardian royalty. It is a meal Loki has partaken of, hundreds of times. It smells and looks...familiar.

Thor serves a helping of stewed meat on Loki’s plate, and it makes his stomach twist anxiously.

“Thank you, master,” Loki whispers. He sits straight as a rod, hands on his lap. His heart pounds.

“We’ll get some meat into your bones yet,” Thor says. He flashes a quick smile at Loki, and picks up his fork.

Loki swallows, throat suddenly gone dry.

_It has been days since he was last given food or drink._

_He shudders on his knees as a thick, bulbous alien cock forces its way into his mouth and he suckles it down, ravenous for any form of liquid to go down his throat. Behind him, his master tuts._

_He is pulled off of the alien’s cock, his master’s hand screwing tight into his hair._

_“Now, now, don’t be greedy. It’s like you haven’t learned anything at all, pet. This is about your master’s pleasure, not your silly needs.”_

_“Please, I’m sorry, please,” Loki rasps._

_His master slaps his ass, hard, jostling the plug inside him, and Loki whimpers._

_The alien client laughs, takes the goblet of wine in his hands, and slowly pours the liquid on his cock._

_Loki’s eyes widen in desperation._

_“Please,” he chokes out._

_“Beg, slave,” the alien orders._

_“Please,” Loki begs, voice cracking, “Please let me pleasure you, sir.” He would lick the wine off the floor if he were allowed._

_The alien takes Loki’s face and rubs his cock all over it, mixing wine and come and spit, and Loki opens his mouth and takes it. He spends hours slurping and suckling on the cock, his cheeks bulging and his throat growing raw. Finally, when the alien is about to come, he pulls out, pushing Loki to the floor._

_Loki’s starved body shudders as a plate of food is brought out. He watches as the alien puts his dripping cock over it, and covers it in come. Strips of it gush out of his cock, white and thick._

_No, Loki thinks, no no no please._

_“Eat,” the alien growls._

_Slowly, Loki crawls. He lowers his face to the plate, seeing the mess of come and food._

_He chokes down a sob as a violent tremble shudders through his frame. Something inside him splinters and breaks._

_Loki bows his head. He eats._

—

“Loki? What’s wrong?”

“N-nothing, m-master, I _—_ this slave is, is sorry,” Loki stutters out. He reaches out to grab a fork, and it falls from senseless fingers and clatters to the floor.

Loki sobs. He covers his mouth with both hands and convulses, starting to shake.

“Loki,” Thor says, alarmed.

“P-please,” Loki chokes out, “Please, m-master, please, I _—_ ”

_This is about your master’s pleasure, not your silly needs._

Loki knees hit the floor with a dull thud, and he crawls over to where Thor’s legs are spread open.

He presses his wet, hot, open mouth to Thor’s crotch.

Thor gasps, hand coming to rest on Loki’s head. Loki takes this as encouragement, dragging his tongue up the seam of Thor’s trousers, closing his eyes and letting a moan vibrate through the fabric. He sucks, hard, and his hands reach up to open his master’s trousers.

“Loki,” Thor grits out. “No, I don’t. I don’t want that from you.” He pushes Loki away as gently as he can, and closes his legs.

“M-master?” Loki asks, face crumpling. “Please, let me please you, master.”

“ _No_ ,” Thor says, in a snarl, anger making his voice rough.

Loki feels the his stomach drop. Foolish, foolish, slave, to think his master would _want_ him. He presses himself to the floor.

“I _—_ M-master—d-do I displease you? Please, I only, please,” Loki begs, desperate.

“Loki, you—” Thor breaks off with a sigh.

“I-I’m so sorry, master, I only, I only meant to, to p-please you,” Loki whimpers.

The sound of Thor’s chair as he pushes it backwards is deafening. Loki pushes himself harder into the floor and trembles.

He hears the gentle impact of Thor’s knees on the carpeted floor, feels hands tentatively touch his shoulder.

“I know, shh, I know,” Thor whispers, stroking Loki’s shaking back. Slowly, he helps Loki onto his feet.

Loki sways, shivering and exhausted.

“I’m sorry, master,” he says miserably. Thor only smiles, gently cupping the side of Loki’s neck.

“It’s all right. Can you wait for me in the bedroom? No, wait, not the bedroom...the library, please?”

“As it pleases you, master,” Loki murmurs, bowing his head. He stumbles away on unsteady feet.

Loki kneels on the soft floor of the library and tries to keep his mind calm. The minutes tick by, slow. Does Thor mean to keep him here all night, on his knees? It would be nothing less than what Loki deserves.

The door opens. Loki fights a flinch.

A sweet fragrance enters the room, and Loki’s mouth waters. His stomach growls. He is hungry, now, but he knows he doesn’t deserve to be fed, not after his terrible behavior.

He keeps his eyes trained to the floor.

“Do you remember this, Loki?” Thor asks.

“Rice porridge, master?” Loki replies, the words falling out of his mouth.

“Your favorite,” Thor says, “And perfect for a cold night. Here.”

Thor sits on the floor in front of him and wraps Loki’s hands around a bowl.

It is so warm. Loki’s fingers tighten around the porcelain.

“Thank you, master,” he whispers.

“Go on,” Thor says.

Loki brings the bowl to his lips as Thor does the same.

The porridge is sweet and thick, golden with honey and spices from Jotunheim. A delicacy on Asgard, after the many years of war.

Loki swallows it down hungrily, until he is picking the last few grains with his fingers.

“Good?” Thor asks, setting down his own bowl. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and Loki’s nose wrinkles before he can control himself.

Thor laughs, “You always did hate it when I did that.”

“It’s not a slave’s place to judge its master,” Loki says softly.

There is silence between them, and Loki closes his eyes, his body heavy with exhaustion. He tries not to sway on his knees.

“Loki…” Thor says, hesitant, “Where...where were you, after you disappeared from Jotunheim? Before you arrived on Asgard?”

Loki looks down at the floor.

“I was on Sakaar, master, for my training.”

“Sakaar,” Thor breathes, as if it has been punched out of him.

“For how long?”

“I...years, master...I don’t...don’t recall. I apologize.”

“Years. On Sakaar. Loki, how did it happen?”

Loki squeezes his eyes shut.

“The...My king sent me to Sakaar after the execution of my family…” he whispers.

“Your family,” Thor chokes out, voice wrecked, “Gods.”

“Slavery i-is a m-mercy,” Loki says, shaking as hot, fresh tears slide down his face. “I-I am g-grateful, master.”

“You are a _prince_ , Loki, and the rightful heir of Jotunheim,” Thor urges, putting hands on Loki’s shoulders.

Loki flinches, shaking his head.

“I am a slave, master,” Loki says, squeezing his eyes shut. Thor’s trembling hand wipes away the tears that drip steadily down Loki’s cheeks.

“Loki,” Thor says, helplessly.

Loki goes, unresisting, when Thor draws him into his arms.

“Would that I could kill Thrym where he sits on your throne,” Thor says, voice so full of venom that it makes Loki shake.

Outside, it begins to rain. Thunder rolls incessantly, angrily, and Loki can only close his eyes and hold on to his master, and wait for the storm to pass.

—

“You can take the bed,” Thor says, leading Loki into the bedroom that night. “I’ll take the settee outside.”

“ _Master_ ,” Loki says tremulously. He flinches and goes down to his knees. He knows his master doesn’t want him, but to be rejected like this, to not even be allowed to warm his _bed_ —how is it possible for him to be so _useless_? And to sleep on a bed while his master sleeps outside—it is unthinkable. Loki would beg to be flogged for such an offense. But to disobey an order merits punishment as well.

Loki closes his eyes as his heart starts to pound. He doesn’t know what to _do_.

“I...I cannot, master. I apologise. Please punish me as you see fit,” he whispers, and hopes that will be enough. He presses his forehead to the floor in supplication, waits for a kick to the side, or a blow to the head.

Instead, Thor says, “Well, help me strip the bed then.”

Loki sits up hesitantly, staring as Thor starts to arrange the beddings on the floor. He stumbles to his feet and picks up the pillows, placing them on the floor as well.

Then, his master stretches out on the ground and glances at Loki with his arms folded behind his head.

“M-master,” Loki stammers.

Thor pats the carpeted space next to him.

Tentatively, Loki lays down on the floor beside Thor, body tense, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Nothing happens.

“You know what, the floor isn’t half-bad,” Thor says, with a smile. “It’s like camping. Like old times, right, Loki?”

Loki closes his eyes against the memory. It was so long ago. A different life entirely. None of it matters. He is a slave, now. And yet…

Loki swallows, blinking in the growing darkness. This, being here, the simple act of laying down next to Thor—it fills him with warm familiarity.

“I remember when we first went camping, master,” Loki says, hushed, as if it is something forbidden.

“It rained the whole time,” Thor laughs. “Our tent was waterlogged.”

“I’d never felt anything like it,” Loki whispers, “It never rained on Jotunheim.” He swallows and adds, “Master,” fighting a shudder at his own impertinence.

“I killed my first bilgesnipe,” Thor says.

“ _I_ killed your first bilgesnipe,” Loki retorts, then flinches, breath catching in his throat. The events of the day have exhausted him, making his tongue slip, making him let down his guard. And Thor had liked it when he spoke out of turn, he reminds himself, heart pounding. Still, he braces for a blow, for Thor to jerk him off the floor and order him against the wall for a whipping.

But Thor doesn’t hit him, no: instead Thor laughs. Loki feels it in his bones.

 _I missed you_ , Loki thinks suddenly, desperately. He dares not say it. He cannot. It is impossible. What he knew of Thor before no longer matters, and neither does it matter who he used to be.

He is a slave, and Thor is his master.

Loki waits for his master to draw him close, to take his pleasure from his body. He thinks it would not be so terrible. Thor has been kind to him, despite his failures. He _wants_ to give his master pleasure. He wants to be _good._

He waits, and waits, and his master does nothing. Thor’s breathing evens out, and he begins to snore.

Maybe, Loki thinks, he can rest, just for a while. He will wake up when his master has need of him.

He closes his eyes, just for a moment...

—

When Loki wakes the next morning, it takes him a moment to realize that his master is pressed to his back. Thor’s soft breaths stirs his hair, and Loki shivers.

Slowly, he grinds his ass back into Thor’s front, and feels his tenting erection. Loki closes his eyes, pressing back harder.

Thor mumbles in his sleep, arms tightening around him, and pressing close.

“Master,” Loki gasps, feeling his cunt grow wet. He reaches a hand back to palm Thor’s erection through his trousers. A few flicks of his wrist, and Thor’s hot, hard cock is in his grasp. Slowly, he lifts a knee to his chest and presses the wet, open mouth of his cunt against the head of Thor’s cock. His _kjalta_ pools around his waist, the fabric sighing softly against his skin.

He muffles a moan into the pillow as he fucks down onto his master’s cock, shivering as his body is cleaved open, filled and stretched to the brim. His heart _settles_ . This is where he belongs, whom he belongs to. He’s being _good_ , finally.

Behind him, Thor stirs, sleepily pumping his cock into Loki’s slick cunt. Loki presses a hand up to his mouth and whines.

“Loki,” Thor sighs, still half-asleep, “Beloved.” He presses his face into Loki’s neck and noses into it, gentle.

“ _Master_ ” Loki sobs aloud. He pushes back, rolling his hips and clenching his cunt.

For a few moments, there’s no other sound but the soft, slick noise of Thor’s cock in Loki’s cunt. Loki lets his eyes fall shut, body trembling. _Be a good slut for your master, just like that, filthy Jotun whore._

“ _I’m a whore_ ,” Loki whispers to himself, eyes squeezed shut. “ _Please use me, please, master.”_

“Mmhh—Loki—what—”

“ _M-more, please, master_ ,” Loki mumbles, pressing his face into the pillow and fucking himself, wet and messy, on Thor’s cock.

With a growl, Thor pulls out of him, shoving Loki away.

With a whimper, Loki rolls onto his hands and knees and presents himself, spreading his legs and displaying his dripping cunt for Thor.

Outside, a peal of thunder rolls. The walls shake. Loki whimpers, but stays in position. What has he done wrong?

“Don’t—don’t _ever_ do that again,” Thor growls, shaking with anger.

“M-m-master,” Loki chokes out.

For a few brief moments, he only hears Thor breathing heavily behind him. Loki closes his eyes and waits for the lash of a belt, or a cane, or the angry slap of his master’s hand. His master is angry and Loki has displeased him and he deserves to be whipped, to be punished.

“Loki, no,” Thor says wearily, and Loki realizes he is talking out loud, begging for Thor to hurt him.

“Gods,” Thor groans, “Fuck, Loki. Don’t. You don’t have to do that. Not with me.”

“I’m sorry, please, I’m sorry,” Loki pleads, pressing his face into the pillow and giving in to broken, muffled sobs.

“Loki,” Thor sighs. “Please look at me?”

Tremulously, Loki sits up on the bed and turns his body towards Thor, but he can’t bring himself to look up.

“Loki...do you know what you did wrong?” Thor asks.

“I…” Loki starts. He draws in a shaky breath. “I displeased you, master,” he whispers.

“Do you understand why I’m displeased?” Thor asks.

“I t-touched you. E-even though I-I’m not pleasing to you, master,” Loki stammers. His arms tighten around himself.

“It’s not about being pleasing,” Thor says. “I’m displeased because you touched me without asking,” Thor continues. “It’s a violation. No one should be able to touch anyone’s body like that without permission. Do you understand?”

“Yes, master. I’m sorry, master,” Loki whispers, though he does not understand at all. He only knows he has displeased Thor and it must be because he is useless, broken. A filthy whore who doesn’t deserve even to be fucked by his master.

Thor hesitates, then says, “That applies to you, too, Loki. No one should be able to touch you without your permission. Not even me.”

Loki’s brow furrows. “I...master...my body is yours,” he whispers.

“No, it’s not,” Thor says gently. “Your body is only ever yours. It belongs only to you, no one else.”

“But,” Loki pleads, shaking his head, “If I—if I give you my—my permission—then y-you can touch me as you—as you like. You have my permission, master.”

Thor rubs a hand through his hair, sighing. “Loki, do you want me to touch you because it’s what _you_ want, or because it’s what you think _I_ want?”

“I want it,” Loki pleads, “Please, I want it.” It’s all he wants, all he should ever want. It’s all he’s good for, but now he thinks he might not even be good for that.

Thor closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Okay. Let’s. Talk about that some other time. People have hurt you, Loki. They’ve hurt you and made you want to be hurt. I’m not...going to do that.”

“I’m sorry,” Loki whispers, shaking his head, “I—I don’t...I’m sorry, master.”

“It’s all right,” Thor sighs, “Just don’t. Don’t do that again, okay?”

Loki nods fervently, rubbing a hand up his cheek to wipe away stray tears.

Thor takes a deep breath, and lets it out in a long sigh.

“I’ll draw a bath for us,” Thor says, standing up before Loki can offer to do it himself.

As Thor stands up and walks away, Loki cannot help the sob that escapes him, though he tries his hardest to smother it with his hand. Confusion and dread coil around his limbs. What use _is_ he, if his master doesn’t want him?

—

At the sound of Loki’s soft sobs, Thor falters, feeling as if his heart has been struck through with an arrow.

Every muscle in his body screams: _go to him_. But he cannot.

What right has he to touch Loki? None at all. For all that he has denied all claims of Loki being a slave, of himself being Loki’s master, his actions have only proven him a hypocrite. He has been wrong to have held Loki as he has, to have taken his own comfort in Loki’s body, when any comfort Loki takes in his touch has been tainted by his torture, by his captivity.

Thor pushes the door open. As it closes behind him, he feels his body go weak with shame, with grief. He breathes past it.

He inhales, deep and slow, and steadies himself.

He will fix this. He will make things right. He must.

—

That night, his master has a new bed brought into his room. Unfamiliar men heft it over their shoulders, unheeding of the slave tucked on his knees into a corner.

_The rooms for pleasure slaves on Sakaar are sparse, empty but for a bed. Outside the window, the triune moons of Sakaar loom, but Loki cannot turn his head to look._

_He’s kneeling on the floor, in the position he’s been taught: knees together, back straight, hands crossed behind his back, head bowed._

_Within half an hour, his body is sweating, his feet going numb._

_He twitches slightly out of place, and the obedience collar around his neck sparks up in warning. Five obedience disks, embedded in a circle around his neck. His master had hummed while placing each one lovingly on his skin._

_“Please,” he whispers, and there is no reply. In another half hour, he slips out of position. His fingers touch the floor to steady himself, and fire races through his veins from the collar._

_He chokes on a cry, and struggles to sit up, sweat and tears dripping down his face._

_“Please,” he says again, louder this time, his voice cracking in desperation._

_His master sits behind him, watching silently. Loki knows begging will be useless, but he cannot help himself._

_“Master,” he chokes out, “please, this_ — _this slave begs you_ —” _The obedience collar goes off, and Loki bites his lip so hard it bleeds._

_Time passes. His limbs grow weary and heavy and he falls out of place twice more, and twice more he feels fire in his veins, a pain so terrible it feels as if being burned from the inside out._

_When the first patron comes in to throw him on the bed and fuck him, it is a relief. He goes willingly when he is pushed down on shaking limbs into the bed, and he takes the alien’s two cocks into his ass and cunt both, choking out a grateful sob._

_“What do you say, slave?” his master asks, the first words he has spoken tonight._

_“Thank you, master,” Loki whispers, over and over, under his breath. His gratitude is true and desperate. He is grateful indeed to have a master so kind._

_After the creature is done with him, he crawls back down onto the floor, come dripping out of his fucked-open holes, and returns to position._

_The second patron comes, a hulking thing that is half-bull and half-man, with a cock larger than Loki’s arm. He pushes Loki onto his back on the bed and regards him with a feral expression._

_“Spread yourself open,” his master says, sounding bored. “Wider.”_

_Loki’s hands scrabble at his thighs as he brings his shaking knees up to his chest._

_“Tell the, ah, creature, what you want, pet.”_

_“F-fuck my cunt, sir, p-please,” Loki whispers, holding himself open._

_The creature snorts in amusement, grabbing onto Loki’s horns as he fucks his cock into Loki’s cunt._

_“How does it feel, slave?”_

_“G-good, mmmaster, ah, master, it f-feels, g-good, mmm_ —!” _Loki sobs, arching his back in an attempt to accommodate the creature’s girth. His fingers fall to his sides as the creature grabs the back of his knees and pushes them up over his head, bending him in half like a ragdoll._

_The next two patrons are Kronans. One takes Loki’s ass while the other takes his cunt. They are not gentle._

_The next one is Aesir. Blonde, blue-eyed. His master laughs softly when this one enters._

_His master makes Loki ride the Aesir, steady and deep, and the Aesir thanks Loki as he comes inside Loki’s cunt, already sloppy with the spend of all his previous patrons._

_Then his master has Loki lay on his back, and the Aesir puts his tongue inside Loki’s cunt. He is gentle, and kind, and it is the worst cruelty._

_“Make him come,” his master tells the man, while Loki shakes his head desperately._

_“Please, I d-don’t, please,” Loki begs, as the man sucks Loki’s cock into his mouth._

_Loki is sobbing, convulsing as he comes, gushing wet and messy around the man’s fingers in his cunt._

_“Did you like that, pet?” his master asks, when the man has gone._

_“No, master,” Loki whispers, honest._

_The collar goes off for a long while, after that._

_Afterwards, Loki shakily crawls out of bed onto the floor, and his master orders him into a new position: ass in the air, legs spread open to display his cunt._

_On and on the fucking goes, throughout the night, and the puddle of come beneath him grows steadily, slippery under his bruised, aching knees._

_As the first rays of dawn pass through the window of the room, he sways off his knees and slumps onto the floor. The collar goes off and he screams until he is hoarse, and screams on, soundless, until his master grants him mercy._

—

“Loki?” Thor’s voice cuts through the haze of his memory, and Loki finds that he is kneeling beside the new bed, stiff as a statue.

Thor says kindly, “I know it’s not as good as mine but it was the best I could get at short notice.”

“Am I…” Loki chokes out, voice shaking. “Are you…going to watch, master?”

It’s clear to him now: Thor does not want to touch Loki, but will share him with his companions. Loki is unworthy of his master, but maybe he can be good for his master’s friends.

“Watch?” Thor asks, perplexed.

“When…when your companions come to—fuck me, master,” Loki says, looking down at the floor.

“No one is going to touch you,” Thor says, gently, after a tense pause. He sits on the bed, pats its white sheets and green blanket and fat pillows.

“You’re meant to sleep in it,” Thor continues. “Just that, Loki. Nothing more.”

Loki lets out a harsh breath, his body going pliant with relief. Slowly, he reaches out a trembling hand to touch the bedding.

It is smooth beneath his hands, and soft, and Loki cannot contain himself.

He sobs, once, hands clenching into the sheets, and says, “Thank you, master.”

“No one is ever going to touch you again, unless you wish for it. I swear to you, Loki,” Thor says firmly.

Loki almost opens his mouth to say, _then touch me, please, I want it,_  but he falters. He struggles to understand the enormity of Thor’s words; he cannot wrap his mind around them.

 _What use is a pleasure slave that does not want to be touched_? But the _idea_ of it brings such a relief that he swallows down his protests and nods, and merely tells himself that he will be ready when Thor goes back on his word.

Sleep does not come easy that night; he lays as still as he can on his side, listening to his master’s breathing, so close, but not close enough to touch.

He wonders about his fate, his role in his master’s household, whether he’ll be given away or if his master means to keep him even though he has done nothing but displease him. Does he want to be touched? He should. He wants to please Thor, and how can he do so if Thor refuses to take pleasure from his body? But to be touched is to be hurt, to be violated, to be stripped and made vulnerable. But he should _want_ it, shouldn’t he? To _not_ want it...is to be punished: to be hurt, to be violated, to be stripped and made vulnerable.

But Thor had touched him kindly, gently, and is it wrong to want that?

Loki’s heart thuds in his chest at the memory of Thor stroking his hair, cupping his cheek. He wants to be touched like that, but he does not deserve it, only deserves to be fucked and used.

And what if...Thor is kind in that too?

Impossible, _impossible,_  it will hurt, even if it is Thor. It always hurts, always leaves him broken and soiled and filthy.

But oh, but Loki _wants_. It makes a sob rise in his chest, and he presses his hands to his mouth to muffle the sound.

His thoughts spin in circles, like a snake eating its own tail. He shudders on the bed, wrapping his arms around himself and trying to stem the rising panic that his own thoughts bring him. He is weary, but rest does not come.

In the middle of the night, his master starts to murmur. Loki sits up, prepared for his master to call for him. _He will touch you, and you will like it, because it is what you are for._

Instead, Thor starts to shout, words unintelligible but tone anguished. It makes Loki’s heart pound.

He slips out of bed, anxiety winding around his limbs as he approaches his master’s shaking body. Loki’s hand reaches out to touch his master’s shoulder, but he stops midway, recalling his master’s words. Loki doesn’t have _permission_ to touch him.

He jerks his hand back, watching in growing distress as Thor’s nightmare continues.

He forces himself back into his bed, curling up into a ball and trying not to shake as Thor whimpers and writhes through the night.

He closes his eyes and tries to sleep.

—

The next day, Thor presents Loki with a gift: a distaff, spooled thick with wool, and a drop spindle. Loki cannot bring himself to touch them where they are laid out on his bed. He doesn’t deserve it, not after how he has acted these past days, but Thor insists.

“To pass the time,” is what Thor says. Loki drops to his knees to thank him.

When Thor goes to Council, Loki stares at the distaff and spindle on the bed and musters the courage to touch them. The pads of his fingers meet smooth wood. He curls his hands around them, feels their heft and weight on his palm.

It has been so, so long, but this is perhaps the one thing his body can never forget.

His fingers are not as quick and nimble as they once were, but the motions come easily enough. He sits on his bed, curled into himself, leaning with his distaff against the headboard. After some hours he uncurls, and hesitantly finds himself pacing on the floor as he spins, his feet weaving a pattern of their own.

Distaff balanced over his shoulder, he twists the drop spindle widdershins: it falls, the wool is drafted, and the fibers twists together. Wool turns to yarn in his hands. It is not seidr, not like he used to be able to do, but it is a magic all on its own.

For the next few days, Loki spins. Thor gives him cotton, nettle, hemp. More wool. Bilgesnipe fur, which is rough and coarse and a challenge to spin. Spools of yarn show up in the library, the bedroom, the dining room, as Loki wanders the space of Thor’s personal chambers. And still, he spins.

They take their meals together in the library—Thor continues to somehow procure food from Jotunheim: cured and salted meats, mussels and seaweed, cooked and raw, delicate nuts candied in sugar, different kinds of mushrooms, porridges drowned in honey.

Thor is kind, still, and ever-gentle, though he will not touch Loki, not anymore. His hands falter in aborted movements, and he keeps them to his side when he is near Loki. Loki swallows down his yearning and his want, his desperate desire to _please_ , and he takes the distaff and spindle and spins by the windows, where the sun comes in on late afternoons.

Loki reads, and he spins, and he eats, and tries not to think about how much his master doesn’t want him. One afternoon, as he and Thor are in the library with a fire to chase away the last dregs of winter, he musters up the courage to sit at Thor’s feet and read to him.

In the past, they could spend hours speaking of rhythm and tone, of voice and diction. Thor’s favorite poems were the ones about growing things, about swans and bears and all manner of creatures. About love. He had always favored Midgardian poetry. Loki, on the other hand, had favored the poetry of his people, their short, blunt verses, the words that melted like ice upon the tongue.

“May I...May I read to you, master?” Loki asks, hands curling tight around the spine of a book.

He had spent days looking for just the right book in the bookshelves, and more days still to pick up the courage to read it.

Thor looks up from his own book and gives Loki a smile.

“Of course,” he says, “I would love to listen to you.”

Loki breathes. He opens the book. The words swim before his eyes, and his tongue feels like lead.

“Go on,” Thor murmurs.

“As it pleases you, master,” Loki says. His hands tremble.

He reads the title slowly, his eyes and mouth unaccustomed to the written word. It has been so, so long, and his vocabulary has been reduced to two words: _please_ and _master_.

“The Summer Day,” he says, softly, mouth moving around the now-unfamiliar sounds. He dares not glance at his master’s face.

“I don’t know exactly what a prayer is,” Loki reads.

In starts and stops, he muddles through the poem, stumbling through the words and taking too long. It is a miserable excuse for reading.

“Forgive me, master,” Loki whispers, when he is done.

“No, no, that was...thank you, Loki,” Thor says, voice thick.

“May I...may I read more to you, master?” Loki whispers. “I’ll be good,” he says desperately.

“Of course,” Thor says, a gentle murmur, and his words shiver down Loki’s spine.

“Master,” he sighs, longing to press himself into Thor’s lap. He would kiss his master’s feet, if Thor allowed him. He wants, so badly, to be _touched_. Loki bites his lip to hold in a whine. If Thor doesn’t want to touch him, it is because Loki is not worthy of it, and it is not his place to ask.

_Unworthy, filthy Jotun whore._

Loki ducks his head and looks back down, at the book and at the words. He draws a breath. He reads.

—

It has been a week since Thor’s return from war. A week since he found Loki again. Thor’s heart has lightened, seeing Loki with his spindle. Every time he comes upon a spool of yarn in his chambers, delight runs through him.

And yet, too often, Loki freezes, staring out into space with blank, glazed eyes, and flinches away from Thor’s movements. There are moments where he trembles so badly at the slightest hint of displeasure such that Thor fights to control his expressions around him. Loki still goes to his knees when he sees him, speaks in a tone so deferential it makes Thor want to smash Mjolnir into a mountain.

But after ten years at war, Thor has learned patience. Coaxing Loki out of his submission will take time, like cultivating a Svartalfheim desert flower into bloom.

This morning, Thor gets up before dawn, glancing quickly at Loki, who is curled up into a tight ball in his own bed. His hand twitches to draw a blanket over that blue form. Instead, he makes a mental note to call a tailor to provide Loki with new clothes, and goes to find the palace gardener.

Loki is awake by the time he returns, already on his knees when Thor approaches.

“Master,” he greets, head bowed.

“Loki,” Thor greets, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Would you like to come outside with me?”

“As it pleases…” Loki starts, but Thor is already off.

Thor feels a pang in his heart as he and Loki step into the garden, feet bare. The green grass sticks to Loki’s dusky blue feet. Longing, bittersweet, rises in Thor’s throat. He swallows it down.

From the sack in his hands, Thor produces shovel, hoes, rakes, flour, and flax seeds.

Loki looks at him, confused.

“Master?” he asks.

Thor tosses him the shovel, pleased when Loki catches it instead of cringing away.

“Let’s get digging,” he says brightly.

They spend the day hard at work, tilling a small plot of unused land that is part of Thor’s personal garden. Winter is on its last breath, and flowers have already begun to sprout of out the ground. Thor can feel them calling to him, and he grants pockets of seidr to the straining plants, allowing them to push out of the soil.

They dust the flax with flour, so they can see the seeds scattered evenly across the ground. Loki takes the rake to draw the seeds down into the soil, while Thor calls a light rain to water them.

Loki seems to relish the chill, while Thor calls on the lightning within him to keep himself warm.

Breakfast is platters of fruits from Jotunheim, still rare though the trade has started up again. Thor has had to spend a small fortune to feed Loki food from his homeland, but it is worth it to see him smile and make fleeting eye contact as he thanks Thor for the meal.

Loki eats little, even then. He picks at his food, apologetic and skittish when he pushes his plate away, half-untouched. It gnaws on Thor but he tells himself: one thing at a time.

They set to work again until the sun is high up overhead.

At noon, Thor sits against a tree and encourages Loki to do the same, and they take a lunch of smoked seaweed, stewed mussels, and grilled mushrooms. They eat with hands dusted with soil. It is added flavor, Thor laughs, and a glimmer of a grin appears on Loki’s face.

Flax is best planted at the cusp of spring, Thor knows, when the weather is still cool. It will take three months until it is ready to harvest, green seeds turning gold under the sun. Thor could speed up the process with his seidr, but some things bloom best when they are given time to grow.

“Do you remember this garden?” Thor asks, looking down at his dirty hands.

“Yes, master,” Loki replies softly. He sits beside Thor, between the roots of a majestic oak that was planted in Bor’s reign.

“You are welcome to it anytime,” Thor says. “But I must ask something of you, Loki.”

“Anything, master,” Loki says eagerly.

“This plot of land has to be tended to. It will need not need much watering. Each flower will bloom for only one day. Will you let me know when it happens?”

“Yes, master,” Loki breathes, his eyes wide.

“Thank you,” Thor smiles.

Loki draws closer, and Thor gets on his feet before they can touch. He pats dust off of his thighs and says, “And now, an appointment with the tailor. Let’s get you some tunics and leathers.”

—

The first time Thor takes Loki out of his personal chambers is to take him down to the kitchens. Loki skitters as he walks beside Thor. Earlier, inside Thor’s room, he had knelt at Thor’s feet and bared his neck, and asked Thor for a collar, so Thor could present him to the public. Thor had barely stopped himself flying to the Bifrost and demanding Heimdall send him to Jotunheim, so he could skin Thrym and feed his body to the hounds.

He is angry, and he knows it radiates from him in waves, which makes Loki skittish and anxious. He tries to send him a reassuring smile but Loki, with his head bowed low, doesn’t see it.

Still, they make it to the kitchens with little fanfare. Some people glance at Loki for longer than they should as he and Thor walk through the corridors, but they know better than to stare.

Thor had thought long and hard about the first place to take Loki to reacquaint him with people who knew him before the war, before his...captivity. When they were younger, they’d spent much of their time in these halls, where Aldis, the head cook, and her staff, always treated the young princes with familiarity and ease. Thor remembers late nights spent playing cards with them by the fire, remembers learning how to knead bread, his and Loki’s small hands pressing into dough. Remembers the schemes they’d pull to steal pies fresh from the oven, the taste of apples kissed from Loki’s lips.

The last memory, Thor carefully folds down into his heart. Not the time for that, nor the place.

Today, Aldis turns from a simmering pot, her eyes growing wide as she sees Loki, standing anxiously at Thor’s side. Thor grabs an apple off a counter and bites into it, settling in to watch.

“Loki!” she exclaims, greeting him with a hug and a puff of flour. “It has been _years_ , boy! Where have you been?”

“M-my lady,” Loki stammers, and she pats him gently on the cheek, leaving imprints of flour on his skin.

“None of that, now,” she says sternly, leaving Loki to blink at her. “You’ve always known me as old Aldis, and old Aldis I shall be. My, look at you. You’re thin as a rake! Oh dear, oh dear.”

“I’ve been gone a couple years too, you know,” Thor says, giving her his best pout.

“You come in here dragging that boy behind you, and look at him! He looks starved to the bone!”

“I’ve been trying to feed him,” Thor protests.

“Loki, child, you come in here whenever you need anything to eat, or you need to get away from that big brute over there, all right?”

Loki nods helplessly, ducking his head.

“Well, what do you boys need?” she asks, hands on her hips. Loki looks at Thor, wide-eyed.

Thor winks at him.

“A basket full of your finest pastries, _my lady_ ,” Thor says, grinning.

“Don’t you start, Odinson,” Aldis says, pointing a finger at Thor. She scurries around the kitchen, gathering baked goods and stuffing them into a wide basket.

Thor raises his hands in surrender. She hands him the basket, kisses Loki on the forehead, and sends them on their way.

Before they go, Thor swipes two more apples, smiling in anticipation.

Loki seems winded, wide-eyed as Thor leads him to the outer areas of the palace.  

“I...I’d forgotten she was like that,” he murmurs, as Thor leads them to the stables.

“She’s missed you,” Thor says.

Loki’s brow furrows, but he says nothing.

The smell of horses and hay is heavy in the air. Grain, saddle oil, manure, all of it in the warmth of the full spring sun. It was a comforting smell, one that Thor has loved since childhood.

“Do you remember how to ride?” Thor asks.

Loki flinches. “I...master, I couldn’t possibly…”

Thor whistles for the stable-master. “The grey mare, please, for Loki.”

The stable-master glances between the two of them.

“For...the slave, my lord?”

“For _Loki_ ,” Thor says firmly. He grimly stares the stable-master down.

“Of course, sire, right away,” the stable-master says, and quickly scurries off.

In the bright sunlight of early spring, Loki looks uncomfortable in his new clothes. He’d hesitated when he’d put them on this morning, exchanging his _kjalta_ for the black breeches and green tunic.

“It suits you,” Thor says, nodding to where Loki is fidgeting with a sleeve.

Loki blinks at him, as if not quite sure what to do with a compliment, and nods.

After a moment, a stable-hand comes, leading a dapple grey mare towards the two of them. She tosses her grey head and whinnies at the sight of them.

Thor watches Loki’s reaction carefully: apprehension, first—Loki stands still as she approaches, but does not seem to be able to stop himself from lifting a hand to stroke her nose. She closes her eyes and nudges back. At the action, Loki glances at Thor, hesitating.

Thor nods, and Loki slowly does a round around the mare, letting her get acquainted.

“Do you like her?” Thor asks, watching as Loki carefully strokes the horse’s mane.

“I…she is very beautiful, master,” Loki says. He runs a hand across her flank, eyes widening in surprise as she snorts happily at him.

“It’s an Aesir custom to let horses earn their true names in battle, as you know. But since this one isn’t going to be a war horse, and since she is a gift, I was hoping you would name her, Loki.”

Loki stares at Thor, mouth falling open. His hand twitches against the mare’s coat, deep blue against dappled grey.

“A…a gift? Master, I—I could not—“

“She is yours,” Thor says gently. “She has already taken a liking to you.”

Loki trembles, looking between Thor and the mare, who snorts and twists her great head to start lipping at Loki’s other hand.

“Owning her is not without responsibility,” Thor continues, “You will have to groom her, and visit her, and take her out to ride.”

“Master,” Loki whispers, as if distraught. He closes his eyes tight. After a moment, he brings his forehead to the horse’s neck.

“Mjall,” he murmurs. “Like freshly-fallen snow.”

“Fitting,” Thor nods. “It is a good name.”

Mjall whinnies, as if in agreement, and starts nosing at Loki’s pockets for treats.

“Here,” Thor says, and tosses Loki an apple. Loki doesn’t catch it—it falls and rolls on the grass. Instead of apologizing, as Thor has come to expect, Loki simply picks the apple up off the ground and offers it to Mjall. Palm up, fingers extended: Loki still remembers how to feed a horse. Thor’s heart feels warm, and warms further when Loki _smiles_ , and pats the tuft of Mjall’s forelock as she crunches on her treat.

“Would you like to ride?” Thor asks.

“Yes, master,” Loki breaths, nodding so eagerly it makes Thor smile.

Before Thor can whistle for a stablehand to bring them a saddle, Loki hoists himself up over the horse’s flank and easily sits himself on her back.

“Oh,” Thor says, and laughs heartily.

“Master,” Loki says, ducking his head, a small, sheepish smile on his face. He runs his hands gently through Mjall’s mane and looks back at Thor, smiling shyly.

Warmth blossoms in Thor’s chest, and he smiles back, helpless.

—

Thor’s own riding mount, a bald-faced chestnut named Balli, deftly leads them through one of the well-worn trails beside the palace at Idavollr. The land upon which the palace had been built had been a horse pasture, and certainly Balli and Mjall’s ancestors once roamed the land, free as the wind.

Thor glances at Loki every so often, but he seems to be holding his own with Mjall, content to sit back and let her guide him. He does not miss the shine in Loki’s eyes as he looks all around him, at the trees still bare from the end of winter, their twisted arms crooking towards the sky as if in exultation, at the lush moss beginning to creep through the forest floor.

At every puddle Mjall’s steps into, at every bird call singing through the air, Loki’s body seems to tremble with fresh delight.

Their horses lead them to a clearing, a small hill covered in buttercups and clovers.

They take their lunch out in the open, eating pastries with bare hands and laying back down in their crumbs to stare at the clear, open sky.

Beside him, Loki seems content, face turned towards the sun, free from the anxious despair that seems to envelope him in Thor’s rooms. Not for the first time, Thor contemplates taking Loki away from the palace, living with him somewhere like this, with rolling grassy hills and forest-ringed meadows.

But he has responsibilities in Asgard, and must prove he is ready to be king. He cannot abandon his people, not now that he has just come home.

Yet, if made to choose between Asgard or Loki’s freedom and happiness, Thor already knows his answer.

“Master?” Loki asks, pulling Thor out of his thoughts.

He turns to look at Loki, smiling encouragingly. Inside, he wonders how he’s going to convince Loki to stop calling him that. _One thing at a time, Odinson,_  he reminds himself.

“Thank you,” Loki says, sitting up and fidgeting with a sprig of cow parsley. His shoulders are tense again, Thor can see. He wishes he could stroke them, could comfort Loki with a touch, but he cannot. Must not.

“I don’t...I know I don’t deserve...gifts…” Loki says softly, red eyes shining with tearful gratitude. “And I don’t...understand...but thank you.”

“Gifts aren’t about deserving,” Thor says. “But if they were, you’d deserve the world.”

Loki’s brow furrows and he wraps his arms around himself, curling up with his knees to his chest.

“I’m sorry, master,” Loki mumbles against his knees, his hands clenching in the fabric of his breeches.

“It’s all right,” Thor says. “It’s all right, Loki.”


	2. Chapter 2

Free time is an indulgence Loki doesn’t know what to do with.

He reads books out in the garden, feeling like a thief in the night, stealing something precious. Books, gardens, the open sky and the bright sun: he never thought he would have these again, had resigned himself to a life on his hands and knees, on his back, being used by his masters.

But he has them, and he keeps them close to his heart, relishes each day he can feel the grass under his feet, can use his hands to turn pages, or to spin thread, or to brush Mjall’s coat. He waters the flax seedlings on hot, dry days, and tracks their growth, kneeling in the soil to pull out weeds, watching tiny insects go about their day.

Such simple things, but Loki feels such a surfeit of pleasure from them that he often finds himself frozen in the midst of the actions, taken by such a strong wave of gratitude and—and happiness.

 _Happiness_.

He feels it cautiously, treading around the word with careful feet, keeping it hushed deep inside. He shapes his mouth around the words: Happy. Safe. Free. It makes him shake to think on them, makes his hands tremble, so he keeps them to himself and hopes, quietly, that one day he will learn to grow into them.

He keeps for himself other things also: the way Thor smiles, gentle, the way he says Loki’s name, the twitch of his hands when he wants to touch Loki, but stops himself. And Loki, he thinks he understands: isn’t quite sure whether he wants to be touched, and is relieved that Thor leaves the choice in his hands.

Choices, too, are a new experience. Thor presents him with at least one everyday, simple things: pears or apples for breakfast? Or both, if Loki wants them. The red tunic or the blue one? Or the green? What to spin with today? What book shall he read? But sometimes they make his head spin, make his breath catch in his throat until he has to kneel and press his forehead to the ground and softly beg for Thor to _hurt_ him, to take away his free will and punish him.

Thor never does. He is steadfast, and patient, and though he does not touch Loki, he has learned to soothe him with his voice and his words.

He says, “It’s all right, dear one,” and waits for Loki to come back to himself, to the self that is burgeoning within him: the one that sometimes looks Thor in the eyes, who sings to himself when he spins, who smiles at words on a page. Things that would have been unthinkable before.

And it is difficult, to be this new self, and terrifying: one day, Thor finds him curled up in a corner of the library, sobbing with his face in his hands.

“Loki?” Thor asks, alarmed.

“M-master,” Loki sobs, body shaking, hiccuping through his tears, and sobbing, again. He whimpers, and shakes his head.

“Loki, what’s wrong?”

“I—I d-don’t know, I, I _feel_ ,” he curls his hand into a fist, grasping the fabric of his tunic, above his heart, “and it _hurts_ , master, and I don’t—I can’t—” and he starts sobbing anew.

“Oh, dear one,” Thor says.

“They _hurt_ me,” Loki sobs, “And I didn’t—didn’t w-want it and th-they _made_ me—”

“It wasn’t my _fault_!!” Loki wails, and _screams,_ shaking violently, “It wasn’t my _fault_ , they _made_ me, and I didn’t _want_ —didn’t _want_ —”

Thor bites his lip and nods, somber, and doesn’t wipe away his own tears.

“I didn’t want it,” Loki sobs, rocking himself, “I didn’t, I didn’t, please, I don’t, I don’t, I don’t…”

“I know,” Thor whispers, “Oh, Loki, it was never your fault.”

“But I let them,” Loki chokes, “I let them and I—wanted it—and b-begged for it—and I-I am a _filthy whore_ —

“No,” Thor whispers vehemently, “Never.”

“I don’t—I don’t know what I am,” Loki sobs, hands in his hair, tugging viciously, “I don’t know, I don’t know.”

“You’re Loki,” Thor says helplessly. “You are Loki and you love mangoes, and feeling bare soil under your feet. The first spell you taught me was how to turn the lights off with seidr, and I turned out all the lights in the palace, and Mama forbade us from seidr for a week. You were so restless you would spend all day catching bugs and leaving them in my bed. You used to be scared of thunderstorms. Your favorite thing to spin is flax.”

“It’s the color of your hair,” Loki says, through his tears.

“That’s what you said the first time I mentioned it, and you blushed, and I…” Thor clears his throat.

“I...I know...I am not h-him,” Loki whispers, “that I am...broken, and, and _used_ …”

“You’re always Loki,” Thor says gently. He sits down, cross-legged in front of Loki.

Loki shuts his eyes and rocks back and forth.

“Will you...will you tell me? About...who I was…?” Loki whispers.

“When we were eight,” Thor starts, “I found this beautiful snake in the garden…”

—

Thor is restless. He wanders around his rooms, picking up spools of thread Loki has left behind, gathering them into a basket.

Thor is no weaver, and though he used to play in the weaving rooms, hiding in his mother’s skirts, he knows it is not a place where he belongs. The first summer Loki had spent on Asgard, Frigga had been delighted to learn that Loki was not only a weaver, but had come from the longest line of seidr-weavers in Jotunheim.

Thor had sulked petulantly as his mother stole Loki away, only mollified when Loki hesitantly confided that his own mother had passed when he was a child, and that he was grateful for Frigga’s care and attention.

Through the years, they’d only grown closer, confiding in each other, sharing stories and magic and weaving. Thor has always taken joy in knowing that Frigga and Loki cared for each other deeply.

So the way Loki had flinched and gone down on his knees when Thor had brought him to his mother—it had broken Thor’s heart. Frigga, ever a paragon of firm kindness, had drawn Loki up to his feet, and embraced him.

“My son,” she had said, her voice trembling in a way that Thor had never heard before, “it is good to have you home.”

Loki had been silent, shaking in her arms, and when she let him go, he’d raised a hand to wipe away the tears streaming down his face.

“May I speak to you alone?” Frigga had asked Loki, holding his hands in hers.

“Please,” Loki had said immediately, and then he had flinched, as if struck, and looked down at his feet, whispering, “if—if my master permits it.”

“Of course, Loki,” Thor had said, even though he was caught off-guard by the surge of protectiveness that overtook him—though he trusted Frigga more than anyone in the Nine Realms, the thought of leaving Loki alone with anyone was...disconcerting.

Still, he had smiled and watched them disappear into the weaving halls with a swish of Frigga’s skirts, her hand on Loki’s shoulder.

And now here Thor is, wearing a hole down into his carpets with his nervous, agitated pacing.

A knock on the door makes him look up, but his face falls when Sif walks in, Fandral, Hogun, and Volstagg in tow.

“My friends,” he says, with weak cheer.

“Please, Thor, try to contain your joy,” Fandral says, coming over to clasp Thor’s arm.

“We’ve missed you in the training ring,” Volstagg says carefully. “And in the feasting halls. And in the stables. And—well, everywhere, really.”

“Sif told us,” Hogun says, blunt. “About Loki.”

Thor’s heart sinks. “I know I haven’t been an ideal—or really, even a passable—friend lately. But my responsibilities to the realm, and to Loki have been—”

“We’re not looking for an apology or an excuse, Thor,” Sif says, crossing her arms. “Let us know how we can help.”

Thor sighs, running a hand through his hair wearily. “Loki is...unwell, my friends. I am not sure he is ready to speak to you. But I am doing all I can to help him.”

“Good. In the meantime,” Fandral says, “stop being a hermit and come out with us. A few bouts of pounding me into the dirt will have wonderful effects on your mood.”

—

Fandral is right. Thor grins from where he’s got Fandral wrestled to the ground, caught in a headlock, and feels the blood pounding in his veins from a good, satisfying round.

“I yield, you great big oaf!” Fandral coughs, slapping at Thor’s arm.

Thor laughs, letting Fandral go and rolling onto his back, letting himself sprawl on the dirt and soaking in the late afternoon sun. It feels good to be out here, with his friends, expending his energy and getting into carefree tussles.

“You are impossible,” Sif scoffs at Thor, knocking Volstagg’s blade out of his hand with a deft twist.

“I think we have a visitor,” Hogun says from where he’s sat on the benches, cleaning a dagger.

“Loki!” Volstagg greets, spreading his arms wide. “Your Utterly Royal Highness, it is good to see you!”

Thor flinches, cursing to himself as he scrambles to his feet. When they were younger, Loki had been haughty, prideful. Upon meeting Thor’s friends, he had insisted on being referred to with his title as the heir to the throne of Jotunheim, and Volstagg and Fandral had made up increasingly ridiculous titles to see him turn red. Eventually, the whole thing had become a fond joke among them.

The way Loki freezes at Volstagg’s booming exclamation makes Thor’s heart sink.

Loki’s eyes dart to Thor, wide and panicked.

People around them are starting to turn towards Loki, the lone Jotun in a crowd of Aesir soldiers, drawn by Volstagg’s greeting.

Thor hears someone spit under their breath: “It’s the prince’s Jotun whore.”

“Loki,” Thor calls out, before Loki bolts backwards, back into the shadows of the palace.

“Ah,” Volstagg says, scratching his beard, “my apologies. I think I may have spooked our friend.”

“All will be well,” Thor says, brushing himself off, “but you must excuse me now. Thank you for the afternoon, my friends.”

“Don’t be a stranger,” Sif calls out, as Thor jogs to catch up with Loki.

—

Loki’s heart beats madly in his chest as he hurries back down the hall.

Stupid, stupid. What was he thinking, going to visit Thor in the training ring? He’d foolishly thought he’d be alone but now...the guards, the soldiers, Thor’s friends—now they all know how pathetic he is, how broken.

“Loki,” Thor calls out, and though Loki wishes to do nothing but run away, he stops in his tracks, staring at the floor as his master catches up with him.

Loki waits with bated breath as Thor comes up beside him. He smells like dirt and sweat, and, inexplicably, it makes Loki’s mouth water. He swallows uneasily, and waits for Thor to speak.

“Your hair,” Thor says, in soft wonder, instead of demanding an explanation for Loki’s behavior.

Loki’s hands fly to the braid that the queen had set his hair in, suddenly nervous.

“Does it displease you, master?” he asks anxiously.

“No,” Thor says, “not at all. It looks. It—you. It suits you.” Then, after a beat: “You used to wear your hair like that all the time.”

Loki’s hands fall to his side, listless. “Yes,” he whispers. Dread fills him, and his shoulders drop.

“What’s wrong?” Thor asks, voice filled with worry. “Was the queen—did your meeting go well?”

“She served me my favorite tea,” Loki says softly. “And showed me my old weavings.”

Thor nods. “That sounds...pleasant.”

“I didn’t remember the flavor,” Loki says in a rush. His hands tangle into themselves, fingers squeezing at each other painfully. “I didn’t remember the—the colors. The seidr was unfamiliar. I don’t—” his hands go into his hair again, and he tugs on the braid.

“I don’t remember who I am,” Loki says, hollow and defeated. “I’m not—I’m not who you think I am. Not anymore. I know I am—broken, master.”

Thor is silent for a long moment, as if absorbing Loki’s words, his quiet, panicked outburst.

“When I thought you lost to me,” Thor says, after a deep breath, “I went berserk for the first time. Soldiers, women, children, Jotun, Aesir—none of them mattered in my grief. I lost myself. I did not find myself for a long time. I still fear that I have not.”

Thor turns to face Loki.

“You are whomever you choose to be now. Whether you choose to find your old self, or you wish to start anew. You will always be Loki.”

Loki looks up at him, his eyes bright with unshed tears. A slim blue hand rises, as if to touch Thor, then Loki turns away, bringing the hand up to his chest.

“Thank you, master. You are too kind and too patient with me by far,” he whispers.

“It is nothing less than what you deserve,” Thor says firmly.

They start walking again, side by side. It still makes Loki falter, walking along his master’s side, but it pleases Thor, and so Loki tries his best not to fall behind.

“What I deserve…” Loki says. He sighs, small and soft.

“What you deserve is to not have to share a room with someone who smells like I do,” Thor says, wrinkling his nose.

Loki covers his mouth in a cough, or a poorly-disguised laugh.

“I will draw you a bath, master,” Loki says, and smiles weakly when Thor refuses, saying he can draw the bath himself, and that Loki should rest.

As Thor bathes, Loki sits on his bed and unspools a length of cotton. He ponders over Thor’s words. It hurts to remember. Hurts to recall what he used to be, how he used to be whole. Strong, unbowed, unbent.

Now, he feels he is drifting upon a large, vast void, lost in its depths.

To return to the past, or go forward.

There is a third option: to remain static, as he is now, a slave to his master’s will. But Thor exercises no will over him. Refuses to, out of honor, or—love.

For it is clear Thor loves him; not even Loki can deny it, no matter how much it terrifies him.

And something inside him, long kept quiet, buried deep—it yearns.

—

Thor keeps no secrets from Loki. He speaks freely—too freely—of the affairs of the Asgardian court, leaves important documents and papers strewn about his room. It would be dangerous to put these in the hands of a Jotun. Thor either thinks Loki is hideously incompetent and pathetically harmless. Or, perhaps, he simply trusts Loki.

He has taken to asking Loki for counsel. The first time he does, handing Loki a sheaf of documents on trade regulations, it catches Loki so off-guard that he shoves the documents back into Thor’s arms, then drops to his knees in repentance.

Thor’s questions speak of someone not inexperienced with politics, but rather of someone unwilling to bend to its demands, to the sacrifices that have to be made in one area to improve upon another. Thor does not know the meaning of the word compromise.

Loki realizes that he is aware of this. He _knows_ this about Thor.

It makes him shake to think upon it, the idea that he, long ago, played this role in Thor’s life. That he had any role in Thor’s life at all, before he was a slave. And yet, Loki finds as well that there is a curiosity within him, something he thought long-dead. He realizes that he wants to _know_ , wants to know about the affairs of the realm and the lives of the people. Wants to keep this knowledge for himself and use it for his purposes.

 _You have no purpose except to be a slave_ , Loki reminds himself viciously.

And still, Thor persists. And slowly, hesitantly, Loki begins to answer.

And when he does, Thor considers his words seriously, thoughtfully.

It makes Loki _desperate_ to be useful.

One day, Thor finds him looking through a pile of reports left on his table, and Loki feels his hands go numb, the papers falling to the floor as his eyes meet Thor’s, wide and surprised.

He drops to his knees immediately, pressing his forehead against the floor, contrite.

He quivers when Thor walks towards him, swallows down apologies when Thor picks up the papers on the floor. It is a betrayal of the highest order, what he has done, to have looked at his master’s private documents without permission.

He knows begging won’t make a difference.

Still, he cannot help the whimper that falls from his mouth when Thor sits beside him.

“What do you think of Idunn’s new irrigation plan?” Thor asks.

“Master,” Loki chokes out, stunned.

“Please sit up?” Thor asks, soft.

Slowly, shakily, Loki does, keeping his head bowed.

“Forgive me, master,” Loki whispers, “I don’t know what came over me. Please punish me as you see fit.”

“Punish you?” Thor asks. “I should be paying you. You’re more useful than half the members of the Council. Combined.” Thor smiles at Loki, handing him the papers. “I’d be grateful if you could look over these for me and discuss them over dinner.”

Loki feels his breath catch in his throat, the terrible fear in his heart replaced by relief and gratitude.

“As it pleases you, master,” he says.

He takes the papers with hands that tremble only slightly.

It becomes a habit for them to sit together after dinner, discussing the affairs of the realm. Loki learns that, in the five years since his captivity, not much has changed in Asgard. The Realm Eternal is slow to change, as it has ever been. Thor does not speak of Jotunheim, not with Loki, and there are still things that Loki’s mind refuses to breach, things that hurt too much to think on.

Instead they talk of the rise and fall of the price of wine in Alfheim, and how it affects Asgard’s vineyards. They speak of strained relations with the dwarves, now that the end of the war has slowed the trade of weapons into Asgard.

Sometimes, as the night deepens and the fire dwindles down in the hearth, Loki finds himself recalling snatches of old memories, of nights spent just like this. Only, Loki did not kneel at Thor’s feet as he does now. In his mind’s eye, he puts one memory atop the other, and feels such a deep and terrible longing that it makes him feel sick with want.

 _Remember your place,_  he tells himself, but the warmth of the fire and the food in his belly, and Thor’s relentless, unceasing kindness make him forget, even if only for a moment, that he is a slave.

In these brief, quiet moments, Loki thinks of what would happen if he were to rise to his feet and take a seat by Thor’s side, like the Loki of his memories used to do.

But of course, it is impossible. He makes himself aware of the ground beneath his knees, the old ache that he has become accustomed to, and tells himself: _this is where you belong_.

—

When Thor arrives from Council one day with his shoulders tight and his face grim, Loki’s first instinct is to kneel and beg for forgiveness. His second instinct is to offer his body—if not for Thor’s pleasure then for him to take his frustrations out on Loki. But the third—the third instinct is to comfort him. To his own surprise, he forgoes the first two and cautiously attempts the third.

He kneels at Thor’s feet, legs tucked underneath him and, swallowing down his hesitation, asks, “Master?”

Thor sighs, rubbing a hand through his hair. “I apologize for my mood. It is politics. You know I have neither the patience nor the skill for it,” Thor says ruefully.

“May I...help?” Loki asks, then cringes.

“I would be vastly relieved to hear your advice,” Thor says with a smile. “You haven’t failed me yet.”

Loki flushes, looking down at his hands. “I’m glad to be of service, master,” he says.

“Loki,” Thor says, "I truly am grateful. Your help has been invaluable to me."

Loki swallow, nodding. 

“Bragi will not capitulate on the issue of Midgard,” Thor says, rubbing a hand through his hair. “I feel we should offer them aid; after all, they were attacked by Jotunheim as well. Tyr feels that driving the Jotnar from their realm has been aid enough. On and on we argue in circles, until the Council tires of us.”

“You...don’t have enough allies in court,” Loki tries, carefully.

“Yes,” Thor sighs. “The councilmen do not seem to trust me.”

Loki bites his lip. “Master...you have been at war for the past decade. They...the councilmen think you...arrogant. Brash. Better suited to war than governance.”

Loki swallows, staring at his hands where they are anxiously twisted together on his lap.

Thor nods. “What do you suggest I do?”

Loki licks his lips. Slowly, he says, “Lord Tyr’s vassals…they have been uneasy in peace. They fight amongst each other. Perhaps if you could convince Lord Tyr to send his men to Midgard…?”

“To expend their energies in rebuilding rather than in-fighting?”

Loki nods. “And...is Lady Fenja still on the Council?”

“She is,” Thor confirms, raising an eyebrow.

“Was her grandmother not Midgardian?”

“Oh,” Thor says, nodding. “Indeed she was.”

“Perhaps some call to familial duty will put her on your side,” Loki says. “And Lord Gefjon...has cultivated a reputation for generosity, has he not? If you phrased your request as a favor to the crown…”

“Then he wouldn’t refuse,” Thor muses. He beams. “Loki, you are brilliant. You haven’t even been in the Asgardian court in a decade.”

Loki flushes, ducking his head lower. “The weaving women, they...gossip.” He bites his lip.

Thor chuckles. “Do you join in, then?”

“Master,” Loki says, voice dry, “the only gossip I could offer them is about you.”

“Oh, and I’m sure I could cause quite a scandal,” Thor laughs.

“They ask me things. Especially if the queen is not around,” Loki admits quietly. “They ask me...if you take me, and how it...how it feels. I do not lie to them. It has become an item of gossip. What the Lord Odinson does with his untouched Jotun pleasure slave.”

“What do you tell them?” Thor asks.

“That you...that you treat me with a kindness I do not feel I deserve. That you let me spin, and read, and give me gifts. And that I...I do not understand.” Loki’s brow furrows. “Forgive me, master, I speak out of turn.”

“You are always allowed to speak your mind,” Thor says, “And it gladdens me when you do. Kindness has neither to be deserved nor won. It is freely given. And received, I hope.”

“Master,” Loki murmurs, ducking his head.

“I will use your advice when I am next at council. Thank you.”

“You’re...welcome, master.”

Thor sighs, and sits back, tension gone from his muscles. In response, Loki lets his own body slump, his hands coming free from their anxious tangle.

“Master…” Loki starts, hesitating.

Thor opens his eyes and nods at Loki.

“Go on,” Thor urges kindly.

“May I...can you…” Loki swallows, looking down at his hands. He squeezes his eyes shut, tight.

“Anything, Loki,” Thor says softly.

“Please touch me,” Loki blurts out, then drops his head low.

Thor is silent for a long moment.

“Where,” he asks, finally, voice rough.

In response, Loki reaches out, blindly, for Thor’s hand. Thor slides his hand into Loki’s, sighing at the soft touch.

Gone are the calluses that used to litter Loki’s hands, from weapons and weaving both, brushed away by years of laboring on his back, on his hands and knees in soft beds.

Trembling, Loki brings Thor’s hand to his neck, and Thor kneels from the chair to face Loki, gently brushing his long hair aside.

“Is this okay?” Thor asks, a mere whisper, as if speaking too loud will scare Loki away.

Loki nods, both hands cradling Thor’s in a shaking hold.

“I’ve missed you,” Loki chokes out in a sob. “I miss you still.”

“Loki,” Thor says, punched out of him. “Oh, my dear heart.” He longs to draw Loki to him, to hold him to his chest, but instead only rests his hand on the side of Loki’s neck, warm and steady.

—

The months pass.

Thor takes Loki wandering through the palace, down the empty halls that they used to play in as children, and as adolescents, served as secret hiding places for more intimate acts.

As Loki grows more accustomed to being around others—Aldis and her kitchen staff, Frigga and the weaving women, and Mjall and the stablehands—Thor feels more comfortable taking on responsibilities outside of Asgard, though he always returns within the day.

Over breakfast in the mornings, they share their plans for the day: Thor often travels to Midgard to help with the aid efforts, and Loki spends his time in the weaving rooms, or in the stables and the nearby fields, or in the large, sprawling palace library.

Thor brings Loki gifts from Midgard, books of poetry and little candies, bright, shiny things that Thor knows Loki will like.

Loki, in return, starts weaving Thor scarves, socks, mittens, though winter is months away. He always offers them to Thor shyly, most of the time leaving them on Thor’s bed and surreptitiously watching for Thor’s reactions when he finds them.

He has not asked Thor to touch him again, but Thor holds on to the hope that Loki is getting better, little by little, every day. He meets Thor’s eyes more often, laughs freely at times, smiles at Thor when he greets him.

One evening, Thor arrives in the Observatory after a day in Midgard, and through the roaring of the Bifrost sees Loki coming towards him on the bridge, riding Mjall.

“Loki,” Thor says in surprise, as Loki swings himself off the horse and nods to Heimdall.

“Master,” Loki greets, shy, still holding on to Mjall’s reins. Thor sees him take a deep breath, as if steeling himself, and then he walks forward and slowly wraps his arms around Thor.

Thor opens his mouth in surprise, then closes it. Then opens it again, and closes it.

“May I hug you back?” Thor asks, slowly.

“Please,” Loki says, muffled against Thor’s shoulder. He is shaking ever so slightly; Thor can feel it against him.

“Thank you,” Thor says, and gently brings his arms up and around Loki’s waist. He feels Loki’s breath hitch, and then release. They stand together in the embrace for a while, and Thor tries to ignore Heimdall’s gaze.

“Are we to ride Mjall back to the palace together?” Thor asks, watching her over Loki’s head, teasing.

Loki stiffens in his arms, and Thor could hit himself. He lets Loki go as Loki pulls away, looking down.

“I—hadn’t thought of it, master,” Loki says, staring at his feet. “I was too eager to see you,” he mumbles. “The flax has bloomed. The flowers are—blue as your eyes. Master.”

Thor feels himself blush.

“I would love to see them. We can walk back together,” he offers. “The evening is lovely. As are you.”

Loki blinks, blushing, then turns around and briskly starts leading Mjall across the bridge.

Thor nods at Heimdall in farewell, and jogs to catch up.

“Loki,” he calls, as he reaches Loki’s side. Slowly, he extends a hand.

“May I?” he asks, emboldened by Loki’s hug, the fact that he had ridden out to welcome Thor back home.

Loki’s eyes dart to his face, apprehensive and fearful, but Thor only smiles back serenely, and wiggles his fingers.

Slowly, Loki places his hand on Thor’s. Thor closes his hand around Loki’s, feeling the weight of it in his own.

“Thank you,” Thor says, and lets their hands fall between them.

Together, they walk back home.

—

The sun is setting as they arrive home, painting everything golden, pooling in the shallow cups the flax flowers make.

Gold on blue, Thor thinks, as he lets go of Loki’s hand. Loki kneels down next to the flowers, closing his eyes and swaying in the breeze with them.

The sunlight settles on his shoulders, dripping down his arms and his hair, his collarbones. Gold on blue.

Often, in the days that follow, Loki lays down beside this patch of sky they have cultivated from barren ground, reading or spinning. Resting, breathing.

Thor finds him asleep in the garden on more than one occasion, faced turned to the clouds: a flower in bloom.

The flax blooms in waves. While each flower blooms only for a single day, there is always another to take its place.

After a month, the flax is ready to be harvested for fiber, and so Loki takes to spinning thread as golden as Thor’s hair.

If Loki still had his seidr...Thor muses with a pang of sorrow, these threads would be imbued with the most powerful magic in the Nine Realms. And yet even now, Thor cherishes them. They are made into linens, bedsheets upon which they rest their bodies at night, cloths that cover their tables. Clothes that are light and soft, that Thor has taken to wearing to sleep.

He wants Loki to know that he still has skill, that his hands are capable of crafting things of beauty and use. That he is more, much more, than what he has been forced to become.

—

The library has become one of Loki’s favorite places. He finds himself drawn there despite the presence of strangers, though he delves as deep as he can through the shelves to avoid their attention. He finds a corner in a section of the library that seems long-forgotten, and reads books that seem not to have been opened in centuries. It doesn’t matter what he reads—it is the act of it that he treasures. Being in the library is one of the few times he is ever alone, and though it seems _wrong_ to take pleasure in his solitude—surely this is forbidden, surely Loki cannot be allowed this—he takes it anyway.

One night, he stays in the library far longer than he should have, and worries that Thor will be displeased by his absence at dinner. As he returns the books to their shelves, he feels someone come up behind him, and freezes.

A hand touches his shoulder. It travels down his back, and comes to rest on his ass.

Loki closes his eyes, and tries to control his breathing.

Then the hand slips between his legs and he jerks away, stumbling backwards.

The man laughs, grinning at him. “Come, kitten, don’t play coy now.”

“Who are you,” Loki asks, “what do you want?” He backs up until his back hits the bookshelf behind him.

“Is that any way for a slave to talk?” the man says. “The Odinson should keep your insolent mouth gagged.”

“Don’t come any closer,” Loki warns, even as his heart is pounding madly in his chest, his throat closing up.

The man ignores him, swiftly darting forward and pinning Loki against the bookshelf before he can run away. The man is strong underneath his pampered appearance, and he shoves a thigh between Loki’s legs insistently.

“No,” Loki cries out, “please, my master will not—he does not wish to share me, please—”

“The Odinson barely touches you,” the man laughs, “are you defective? Can’t please a man anymore? I’ve heard your cunt was the sweetest in the Nine Realms. Men used to travel across the universe for just a taste of it.” As the man speaks, he rolls his hips against Loki’s, grinding his cock against Loki’s crotch through their clothes.

 _Submit_ , Loki’s mind screams, _It’ll be easier on you. You are a slave, a fucktoy, a whore. Spread your legs and take it._

“Please,” Loki tries again weakly, “My—my master—”

“Stay still, and be good, slut,” the man hisses. “Take it like a good whore.”

“I’m not,” Loki whispers frantically, “I’m not, I’m n-not—”

The man starts scrabbling at Loki’s trousers, trying to get them undone.  Loki chokes on his protests, and reacts without thinking—his hands grab a book from behind him, heavy and ancient.

He swings, hard, and it connects with the man’s face with a sickening crack. The man stumbles back, holding a hand to his face, and roars in pain and anger.

Loki’s senseless fingers drop the book.

He runs.

—

Loki sits on the bed with his arms curled around himself, trying to keep from shaking apart.

Galli Skirfirson is on the King’s Council as the keeper of the Royal Treasury.

Loki had injured him. Had dared to attack a free man—a nobleman.

Thor is livid, radiating with anger. And still, he is gentle with Loki, his voice soft as he asks him where he has been hurt.

“I’m fine, master,” Loki whispers, even as the space between his legs aches in phantom pain. He’s been through much worse. That was nothing. Why is he shaking? Why can’t he stop?

“Would you like to see the healers?” Thor asks gently.

Loki shakes his head, and starts to cry. He doesn’t deserve Thor’s kindness.

“I’m sorry I—that I let him t-touch what b-belongs to you, master,” Loki chokes out, as his body shudders.

“No,” Thor says firmly. “You belong only to yourself. And that vile pig violated you.” Thor clenches his fists and grits his teeth. “I must go to council. Galli has brought the matter up to the court.”

Loki trembles, tears rolling down his cheeks. “I didn’t want it,” he whispers. “Master, I didn’t, I didn’t—”

“I know,” Thor murmurs. “I know, dear one. I will find a way. There must be justice in this farce.”

But there is nothing to be done, Loki knows. Galli will be made to pay a fine, but Loki—he has nothing to give but his body. Though Asgard had abolished slavery in Bor’s time, foreign slaves are held to the old law.

And the old law requires punishment.

—

There is a knock on the door, and Loki goes to his knees as his master enters.

“Master,” Loki greets softly.

“The Council has ordered your punishment,” Thor says.

Loki’s throat goes dry, but he forces himself to nod.

Thor comes closer, until Loki can see his boots from where he kneels on the floor, eyes cast down.

Thor says, voice determined, “But I will not carry it out. Tomorrow, I will free you.”

Loki feels as if his entire body has been drenched in the ice-cold waters of the River Ifinger.

He sits up, breath gone short.

“Master,” he chokes out. “Y-you _cannot_.”

“I will, and no one will stop me. You can stay in my rooms if you wish, or you can return to Jotunheim. I can set you up in a house in the countryside, away from all this. You _will_ be a free man.”

“Please,” he chokes out, “G-give me away. Give me to y-your friends, o-or your a-army, please, you must keep me as a slave, master.”

“No,” Thor says.

“You _cannot_ ,” Loki says again, despairing. “I _—_ I am a _—_ a _traitor_ on Jotunheim and a war criminal on Asgard and this is my _punishment_. To free me is an insult to _both_ realms. It would be tantamount to treason!”

“Loki,” Thor says wearily, “I will not punish you.”

“Then what am I _for_ , master,” Loki cries out. He feels something quake inside him, something hot and molten that is neither fear nor subservience.

“You _—_ you will not hurt me, or use me or _—_ or _touch_ me, and you would _—_ you would throw me away.” Loki’s voice is rising. He is shouting. He cannot stop.

“What do you _want_ from me,” he sobs.

“I would have you free,” Thor says.

“It would mean _nothing_!” Loki cries. “Free or enslaved I would still be _broken_. So send me away, _Thor_ , send me away to Jotunheim or Midgard or the countryside, throw me away to _rot_.”

He chokes out the last word, chest heaving with heavy, panting breaths.

For a moment, there is no other sound aside from Loki’s breathing.

And then:

“You said my name,” Thor says, soft and full of wonder.

Loki stares at him, heart still pounding, and says, “You...you missed the point entirely.”

“Did I?” Thor says.

He gets down on his knees before Loki, and his hands make an aborted move to touch him.

“Please,” Loki says, exhausted and knowing he cannot possibly make things worse for himself. He wants, so badly, to be touched. Wants for _Thor_ to touch him. His heart shudders in his chest, fear coiling tight around his limbs, but he closes his eyes and says what he wants to say.

“Please. Please touch me. _Thor_.”

Once he starts talking, he finds he cannot stop, and he keeps saying Thor’s name, even as Thor places a hand on his neck, stroking his jaw. He bites his lip to hold in a whine when Thor presses a kiss to his forehead, his beard soft against Loki’s skin.

Slowly, Loki inches closer, pressing himself fully against Thor and sighing deeply when Thor embraces him. He melts into Thor’s arms, uncaring of the consequences, the implications.

He reaches his arms around Thor and hugs back, and sobs when he pushes against the solid wall of Thor’s body and there is no give.

He is held, buoyed by Thor’s arms.

“I told myself I would not touch you,” Thor sighs. “But it was miserable.”

Loki nods, burying his face in Thor’s chest and sighing again. “It was. Master.”

“I hate it when you call me that,” Thor says.

“Twenty lashes every time I forgot to use the proper title,” Loki murmurs, closing his eyes against the memory, “And twenty cocks as well. Semen and wounds, they don’t mix well.”

“Gods,” Thor murmurs. “I would tear Sakaar apart for you.”

“You cannot free me, master,” Loki murmurs, pressed up against Thor’s immovable chest. “Please. For your own sake.”

“I don’t need to be protected,” Thor replies, one hand stroking Loki’s hair.

“Thrym has ever been hungry for war. He will take any perceived slight as an excuse to break the peace. You must not give him the opportunity,” Loki urges.

Thor sighs. “You’re right. You always are.”

“Then you must punish me,” Loki says.

“Fifty lashes,” Thor says, his hand still in Loki’s hair.

Loki draws a quick breath. He nods.

“I can handle it,” he says. Fifty lashes. He has not had that many in one go; in Sakaar, they were more creative with their punishments.

“I’m not sure I will be able to,” Thor says bitterly.

“You must,” Loki says.

“I would take you away from all this,” Thor says, “give you a chance to heal where you will not have to face—this.”

“Then take me away, but do not make me go alone,” Loki says, “I could not bear it.”

“Neither could I,” Thor says, closing his eyes. “Never again.”

—

Loki’s punishment is to be meted out in the courtyard. A small crowd gathers, mostly palace-workers, soldiers and a few courtiers. Galli is there, the nose that Loki broke now mended, accompanied by two personal guards, and he smirks viciously when Thor and Loki arrive.

There is no fanfare in the proceedings. Loki walks out into the middle of the courtyard, where there is a tall, thick pole. His hands are strapped above his head, and he is stripped to the waist. A leather bit is stuffed into his mouth for him to bite, so he will not lose his tongue. Thor watches on the sideline, eyes dark and stormy, body tense. His hands spark with lightning, and no one dares to stand near him.

Loki makes no sound as the first lash hits his back. He lets his body sway with the movement—Thor realizes he is accustomed to this, and it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Loki takes twenty lashes quietly, no sound other than the whip hitting flesh.

The man dealing the punishment is skilled at his work, and fair. After thirty lashes, Loki’s skin tears, as if paper, and he starts to bleed. He also starts to cry out, muffled through the bit. Screams are wrenched from his throat, and it is all Thor can do to stop himself from putting an end to the whole affair and burning the entire palace to the ground. Instead, Thor watches, fixating on the individual parts of Loki’s body: the way his hands twitch and shudder above his head, the way his head is bowed forward and his chest heaves with the blows.

It is an eternity, and it is no time at all.

After the fiftieth blow, which Thor counts under his breath, Loki hands are released. Before he can slump to the ground, Thor is already there, catching him.

Loki is panting, gasping for breath, tears streaming down his face.

He makes no sound but horrible, rasping breaths.

“That’s right, you little—” Galli’s voice rings harsh through the courtyard.

“You will not speak another word, you snivelling snake,” Thor growls, “Or I will shut your mouth with my hammer.”

Galli turns red in the face, staring at Thor like he has grown two heads.

“Can you walk?” Thor asks Loki, and Loki shudders and shakes his head, murmuring apologies under his breath.

As gently as he can, Thor picks Loki up as if he were a babe, and holds him so that they are chest to chest. He makes sure to avoid Loki’s back, which is bleeding sluggishly from the lashes.

“Hold on to me,” Thor murmurs, and Loki’s arms wind around Thor’s neck, his legs going around Thor’s waist. Loki’s breath hitches and he sobs in pain, and Thor grits his teeth.

He holds Loki close, and walks to the infirmary.

—

When Loki wakes, he is floating on a bed of clouds. Anxiety grips his heart—wherever this is, he should not be allowed here—but the stiffening of his body brings pain, harsh and hot, lancing through him.

He can’t help the loud whimper he lets out,  nor the pained sob when he tries to sit up. But he is in bed, and he—his master is here, standing by his bedside, though Loki cannot comprehend what he is saying. But Loki knows what his duty is.

Tremulously, shaking from pain, he goes on his hands and knees to present himself.

“Please, master,” he gasps out, voice hoarse, “please let me pleasure you.”

—

Horror coils in Thor’s stomach as Loki, eyes glazed with pain, skin a dull gray from the torture he has endured, forces himself on his hands and knees and begs for Thor to fuck him.

“Loki,” Thor says, fighting to keep his voice steady, “please, you must rest. Please lay back down.”

“Master?” Loki asks, weak, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“It’s Thor, dear one,” Thor says, wincing as blood starts to spread through Loki’s bandages, his wounds splitting open, “you’re hurt and you need rest. Can you lay back down? For me?”

“Yes, master…” Loki says, eyes drifting closed. He lowers himself to his chest, wrapping his arms around himself.

“Thank you,” Thor says, numb with relief when Loki’s body goes slack and he falls asleep.

—

The next time Loki wakes, he remembers where he is. He looks up at the dark ceiling, his eyes slowly adjusting until he can make out shapes and lines. He realizes he is in Thor’s room.

He turns his head and there Thor is, sitting at his bedside, asleep with his head pillowed on his arms, taking the barest of spaces on the bed Loki lies in, which may very well be Thor’s own bed.

Slowly, Loki reaches out to place a hand on Thor’s arm, sighing at the touch of skin on skin. He feels the gentlest rise and fall of Thor’s body as he breathes, and marvels at him, at how he holds all of Loki’s life in his hands and has treated it like a precious thing.

Loki thinks, _I love him_ , like a memory from long ago, and knows it to be true. It should be terrifying. It should send Loki reeling. How _dare_ he love Thor?

But when he realizes he does, he knows he always has. It is immutable, unchangeable.

It is, perhaps, the only thing that makes him worth anything.

As sleep draws him into its arms, Loki muses that if he remembers he loves Thor, perhaps...perhaps he truly is still Loki.

Whatever that means, for now and for the future, he’s not quite sure. But as he drifts off, he thinks it might not be so terrible, to be Loki again.

—

“There are runes on your back,” Thor says. They were not there, the last Thor saw Loki, before his captivity. And since then, Thor has been careful not to look too closely: Loki’s body was not his to observe. Even now, as he runs ointment on Loki’s blue, torn-open skin, he does not linger, making sure to keep his touch gentle but perfunctory.

His wounds are healing nicely, though not as fast as they should, jagged and ugly. These whip marks will scar. They are meant to.

Loki, with his face pressed into a pillow, looks up and says, simply, “For my seidr.”

Thor’s hand stills for a moment, on the center of Loki’s back. He stares at the runes, broken by the long lines of the whip lashes on Loki’s blue skin. They are drawn crudely, and scored into Loki’s back, almost as if they have been carved into his skin. Thor’s blood runs cold with the realization that they _have_ been.

“Is that why you’re healing so slowly?” Thor asks.

Loki sighs. “The only way to...keep my seidr in check...was to cut me off from it entirely. From the flow of seidr in the universe. Nothing comes out but...nothing comes in either.”

“I’m sorry,” Thor murmurs.

Loki shrugs. “The runes will fade, in time. No seidr is strong enough to defy the flow of the universe. The idea is that my master is to...reapply them.”

Thor swallows the bile that rises in his throat at the thought of disfiguring Loki so. “I will not. When will they fade?”

“You would give me my seidr back?” Loki asks, voice small. His back grows tense, and Thor longs to hold him.

“Of course I would,” Thor says.

“I—” Loki starts, and trembles.

“I cannot imagine what it would feel to be cut off from your seidr,” Thor whispers.

“It is like being blind, and deaf, and mute, and having all my limbs cut off,” Loki says softly. “It was agony, when they first bound me. It is agony now.”

“You will have your seidr back,” Thor promises.

Loki closes his eyes, and says nothing.

—

“If I took you from here, would you come with me?”

Thor finishes peeling a mandarin and sets it by Loki’s hand.

Loki, seated up in Thor’s bed, surrounded by Thor’s pillows, takes the fruit, splits it in half, and offers the other half to Thor.

“Of course, master,” Loki replies, and bites his lip when Thor grimaces.

“Thor,” Loki says, “my place is by your side.” He sets a slice of the mandarin on his tongue and chews slowly. His back aches, but it is a dull pain. Already, he can walk without assistance, though Thor is always eager to offer his.

“By your own choice?” Thor asks.

“I don’t know,” Loki admits. “But it is what feels right.” Loki’s brow furrows. “Is that okay?”

“Of course it is, dear one,” Thor says.

“Then I would go with you. To wherever you wish to take me.”

“I have gained my father’s permission to go to Midgard,” Thor says.

“The Allfather allowed that?” Loki asks, surprised.

Thor winces. “I may have had to...play the role of a frivolous son. One last adventure before focusing on taking on the mantle of kingship.”

“I can’t imagine the Allfather and the Council were too pleased with that,” Loki says.

“It matters not if I give up some of my hold on the court,” Thor shrugs.

Loki bows his head, biting at his lip. “You give up much for me, master.”

“I do it gladly,” Thor says.

“Please be careful,” Loki implores.

“I want you to see Midgard,” Thor says, “I think you will like its oceans.”

“I don’t think my kind is welcome on Midgard,” Loki frowns.

“The people of Midgard love me,” Thor says, “they will trust my judgment.”

“I tire of Asgard,” Loki says, looking down at his hands. It is a bold thing to say to the Prince of Asgard, but Thor, as usual, does not seem to take offense at any of Loki’s impertinence. Loki has found that he has stopped bracing himself for punishment.

“As do I,” Thor sighs. “This is not the place for you to heal.”

“I am already almost well,” Loki says, sitting up straighter.

“I mean more than just the wounds on your back,” Thor says.

Loki shrugs, the movement stiff.

“I have stopped expecting you to punish me,” Loki says, slowly. “And I do not believe you would force yourself upon me.”

“Because of who I am, or because you understand that you don’t deserve those things?” Thor asks.

Loki brings a hand up to rub at his face. “I don’t know,” he whispers. “You say that the things that were done to me were wrong. You say I am a prince.”

“They were. You are.”

Loki looks wearily up at Thor. “I barely know what it means to be myself.”

“You will find yourself, in time,” Thor says, “away from the whispers of Asgard.”

Loki nods. “As long as...as long as I am with you. Mas—” he swallows. “Thor,” he says, always as if he is savoring the word in his mouth, “Thor.”

“Of course,” Thor says. Gently, he lays his hand on top of Loki’s.

Loki smiles, and reaches up to press a slice of mandarin to Thor’s mouth.


	3. Chapter 3

In the decade following the first invasion of Jotunheim upon Midgard, the backwater realm had been thrust into the spotlight of the Universe. When war had come upon its shores, it had brought with it alien trade, technology, even tourism.

Thor turns down invitations from his Midgardian friends and instead takes Loki somewhere remote, and peaceful, and quiet. Somewhere with mangoes.

Thor counts on one thing, and one thing only: that Loki is far too small to be considered Jotun, particularly by those who had heard of and seen the war only from afar. Those behemoths of ice and snow, savage in battle, could not possibly be related to this meek creature.

He is thwarted from the very beginning. Upon seeing Loki, a child shrieks. The leader of the colony on that island, a Midgardian with a fast trigger finger and a large neutron gun that is a mighty contrast to her faded, yellow, palm tree-patterned shirt, spits, “Why did you bring that creature here, Odinson?’

Thor is quick to put Loki behind him, shielding him from both the gun and the villagers’ gazes.

“I can vouch for him, Tala,” Thor says. “He is very dear to me, and he has been hurt, badly. Will you let us stay here?”

The people around them watch suspiciously, and Tala does not put her gun down.

“I...I mean you no harm,” Loki says, stepping out from behind Thor. He lowers the hood of his cloak, revealing his face, his kin-lines, his red eyes.

“I only wish for a place to rest,” Loki says, voice soft but firm.

Tala looks between them wearily.

“If you can vouch for him, Odinson...we’ll give you a trial run. Two weeks. No more crying children.”

“Thank you,” Thor says. Beside him, Loki sags tiredly.

“Was this a mistake?” Loki murmurs, his hand going to tug at Thor’s cloak anxiously.

“It will be alright,” Thor says. He longs to take Loki’s hand.

“Okay,” Loki says, and slips his hand into Thor’s.

—

“Thor! Sigyn’s here!” Loki calls out from across the yard.

Sigyn laughs, watching Loki wrangle two goats on their leads across the rough ground. The animals turn their heads to grasp at the sparse grass that shoots up through the sandy soil.

Sigyn swings the screen door open as the wooden door behind it opens to reveal Thor Odinson, prince of Asgard, the Mighty Thunderer, in an apron, his hair pulled up into a bun on top of his head.

“Sigyn! Hello, we were just about to break our fast. Have you brought the eggs?”

Sigyn holds up a basket. “Fresh from the hens!”

“Excellent!” Thor beams. “Ah, Loki, I’ll milk the goats. The rice should be about ready.” And, turning to Sigyn once more, he tilts his head towards the open door.

“My lady,” he says.

Sigyn blushes and giggles.

“The prince of Asgard, milking goats,” Loki says mildly, smiling as he follows Sigyn into their little home.

Sigyn no longer startles to see Loki’s skin. Having lived on an island all her life, Sigyn knows a dozen different shades of blue. Loki is the blue of the deep ocean, beyond the reef crest. Deep and dark, but teeming with life below the surface.

She had been the first to visit them when they’d settled in, bringing a basket of eggs and offering to trade it for milk.

“We have no milk,” Thor had said, spreading his hands to show that there was, indeed, no milk in their vicinity. Loki had sat quietly at the table, head bowed, his back straight.

Forlorn, is the word that still comes to Sigyn’s mind when she thinks of him. There is something unbearably sad about Loki, so different from the Jotnar in the stories she’d grown up with.

“That’s why I’m also offering to sell you my goats,” Sigyn had said. As if on cue, there had been a bleat from the doorway, and one of the stubborn creatures had ambled into the house, hooves clacking against the tiled floor.

“They’re sending Mama up the wall,” Sigyn had explained. “But a firm hand should set them straight. What do you think?”

“Ah,” Thor had said. “Well? What do you think, Loki?”

Loki had startled, Sigyn remembers, looking up at Thor in wonder, as if confused that his opinion was being asked.

“You used to keep goats when we were younger…” Loki had murmured, looking down at his hands on his lap.

“You remember them?” Thor had asked, smiling gently.

“How could I forget? You would come home smelling of goat everyday,” Loki had said, grinning suddenly, the whiteness of his teeth bright against his dark blue skin. And then, as quickly as it had come, the smile had disappeared, and Loki’s shoulders had dropped as he bowed his head.

“We’ll take them,” Thor had said to Sigyn, though his attention was still on Loki.

His eyes barely ever leave Loki, Sigyn has come to observe this past month. And Loki, when he looks up, only ever looks at Thor.

It’s a romance, in her mind. These foreign creatures who have come to her island in the middle of nowhere must be lovers: torn apart and brought back together, though not quite put together right.

There’s a reason this island is called Refugio, Sigyn thinks, as she and Thor and Loki sit down to eat fresh eggs cracked into steaming bowls of rice.

She hopes they find what they’re looking for, out here, in this little refuge in the middle of sea.

—

“How do you like it?” Thor asks when they step into their little cottage. The screen door swings shut behind them with a noisy clatter; the white, wooden, weather-beaten door stays open. Air and light filters through the screen door into the entrance. To the left is a wooden table with four wooden chairs, a small bookshelf, a couch, a side table with a lampshade made of seashells. To the right, the kitchen. Down the hall, two rooms, one for each of them.

“I...don’t know,” Loki says slowly. “It’s...different,” he says. These are not the gleaming, golden halls of Idavollr, nor are they the bright, sun-filled ice of the _valaisin_ in Jotunheim.

They are not the gaudy, intoxicating chambers of Sakaar.

The walls are weathered, rinsed with salt from the sea air. When Loki runs his hand along the wood, he imagines he can feel salt crumble on his palms.

As Loki walks through the house, Thor begins to unpack their bags. He pulls out objects of increasingly improbable size: piles upon piles of books, a spinning wheel, a warp-weighted loom, which he sets out in the balcony where Loki can have sun.

Thor silently lets Loki have the first choice of room; Loki shyly requests the one facing the cliffs, where they can hear the sea battering against stone.

It is the first night Loki has slept alone in a long time. He wakes up with a shout in the middle of the night, his chest heaving with gasps, his dream disappearing from his grasp. He sits up with his knees pulled up to his chest, looking out through the window. His thoughts are restless as the waves, winding back and forth, across the sand and out again into the sea.

He looks at his palms, the back of his hands, tracing his markings with his eyes. They are proof of his heritage, of his line. His family is dead, he remembers with a pang. He is the last of his kin. Tears sting at his eyes, and he lifts a shaking hand to wipe them off his face.

Who is he? He is Loki. He is a slave, though his master does not treat him as one. He belongs to Thor Odinson, though his master wishes to free him. He is an exile from Jotunheim, though Thor says he is its rightful heir.

What is he doing here? His master wishes for him to heal. Loki knows there is something wrong with him, that horrible things were done to him and that they have left him broken. That slavery is not the only option left to him, not anymore. Is it possible to find himself again? He doesn’t know.

Thor’s footsteps are loud when he crosses the hall to get to Loki’s door, which he has left open. A seasoned warrior like Thor could only be so loud if he wanted to be heard, Loki thinks. As if on cue, Thor’s yawn echoes down the hall.

“Did I disturb your sleep, master?” Loki asks, when Thor pokes his head through Loki’s doorway. He clears his throat and enunciates, clearly, mostly to himself, “Thor.”

“Hm? Oh, no. I didn’t realize you were awake,” Thor lies blithely, carrying two steaming mugs in his hands. He hands off one of them to Loki, and takes a sip from his own, then makes a face.

“This Midgardian leaf is appalling,” Thor says. “Did something wake you?”

“I can’t seem to sleep without your snores,” Loki says. “And I brought a tin of Vanir tea in my pack. From your mother.”

“Thank the Norns,” Thor mumbles.

“I used to wish he’d killed me,” Loki says, staring out the window.

Beside him, Thor stiffens.

“The only consolation I had was that my family did not have to know my shame,” Loki continues, his hands clenched tight around his blanket.

He turns to look at Thor, a tremulous smile on his lips. “I used...I used to dream you’d find me.”

Thor’s expression crumples.

“If I’d known,” Thor whispers. “I would have gone to the ends of the universe to find you.”

“I miss my father,” Loki chokes out in a sob. “I miss my brothers. I miss you. I—” There had been no place, no time to think upon it before. Now Loki is on an island in Midgard, so far from home, and his grief threatens to overwhelm him.

“I’m sorry,” is all Thor can say.

Loki curls in on himself, body racked with sobs, and Thor sets his mug of tea down on the floor and carefully places a hand on Loki’s shoulder.

In response, Loki uncurls enough to pull Thor closer, to press back into the drape of Thor’s body against his.

“Please stay with me,” Loki whispers.

“For as long as you need,” Thor replies.

In the end, Thor drags his mattress into Loki’s room and sleeps sprawled below his bed. Thor’s snores and the sea below seem to converse, answering each other in gentle roars. Loki sleeps with his back to Thor, but when he wakes, he finds that he has turned towards Thor in the night, and his hand dangles off the bed, barely brushing the spread-open map of Thor’s palm.

Every morning hence, Loki delicately steps around Thor’s starfished limbs and makes them tea. They take to wandering down into the beach in the early mornings, when the tide is low: there is a steep set of stairs that winds down the cliff, into the sand. Children scale it recklessly, laughing as they run past Thor and Loki.

—

The first time Loki steps into the Midgardian sea, he closes his eyes and sighs, digging his ankles down into the sand. He hums low, deep in his throat, a Jotun purr of pleasure that surprises himself. It is a sound long become foreign to his own ears.

Beside him, Thor looks out into the horizon with a hand over his eyes, peering at the mainland across the sea. He blinks at Loki’s purr, looking towards him and then away, his cheeks turning red.

“I’ve missed this,” Loki says softly. He wriggles his toes beneath the surface of the shallow water. He begins to walk out into the sea, going as deep as his calves, his knees, his waist. His body remembers this, this push and pull, this incessant call.

He remembers Aurgelmir, the eternal ocean, the source of life for Jotunheim. Children are washed with its waters when they are born, and bodies are sent to their rest in its depths. How could he have forgotten? He lowers his head to the water and drinks of the sea, swallows down its salt and its bitterness, and feels clean.

Then, he plunges his head into the water, and he swims.

When he emerges, hours later, Thor is sitting at the shore, patiently entertaining a gaggle of children, all of whom scurry away when Loki approaches.

Loki looks up in surprise as Thor stands and drapes his red cape on Loki’s shoulders, the finest cloth on Asgard turned into a beach towel for a wet Jotun.

The movement brings their faces very close together, and Loki looks away quickly, feeling his cheeks heat up.

“Are you sunburnt?” Thor asks, worried, peering close.

“I’m fine,” Loki says, and quickly climbs the winding stairs up the cliff.

—

Sometimes, when they tire of eggs, they break their fast with their feet ankle-deep in seawater, gathering mussels and clams and urchins and seaweed into a basket and eating them raw, with hot, steaming rice in a pot they bring down from the cottage. Other families around them do the same: the water is where everyone meets.

Over time, the people on the island warm up to Loki. The children come first, with their wide-eyed awe. Thor regales them with stories of him and Loki as children, tells them that Loki is a powerful sorcerer who can turn into different animals. Once, Loki snaps a sea snake out of the water in one deft motion and lets it coil around his neck, his arms. The children shriek in horror and delight. When a young girl looks close to crying, Loki lets the snake back into the water and instead whistles for a kingfisher to alight upon his finger.

Tala, gathering seaweed a few meters away, puts her hands on her hips, but relents after a sheepish smile from Thor.

Because their lives have been connected by the water, Loki and the people of Refugio share an understanding as deep and old as the ocean itself. They call him ocean-dweller, sea spirit. Loki, with his weavers hands, mends nets with the fisherfolk, sitting among them as he would in a weaving room.

Some days, Thor spends hours sitting on the shore, watching Loki dance with the waves. Sometimes, at night, Thor wakes up to see that Loki’s bed is empty. He takes a Mjolnir and uses her as a light, and goes down the cliff, and finds Loki’s eyes glowing in the dark, above the water.

“Feels like the summers I spent in Jotunheim,” Thor says, when Loki emerges from the water, wringing out his long hair. Thor drapes his red cape over Loki’s shoulders, and Loki smiles as he burrows into it.

“Only this time you can actually join me in the water and not freeze your bollocks off,” Loki says.

“I prefer to watch,” Thor says, preferring also freshwater to salt.

Silently, he worries for Loki, out in the sea, with its wicked waves and currents. When he wakes in the morning and at night to see that Loki has gone, his heart shudders before he can get it under control. It terrifies him that he might lose Loki. Might lose him again, when everything they have now is so newly-won. When Loki has finally learned to look him in the eye and call him by name again.

As Thor grows more golden in the bright sunlight, Loki learns to stand tall, growing as a plant towards the sun.

—

One morning, Loki is making tea in the kitchen, watching steam rise from the old iron kettle on the stove. It is still dark outside, and Thor still sleeps.

When there is a knock on the door, Loki startles, bumping his elbow into the kitchen counter and wincing.

“Tala?” Loki blinks, when he opens the door and finds her, standing with her ever-present gun slung over her shoulder.

“Hey,” she nods, peering past his shoulder. “Is Thor out?”

“Asleep,” Loki says.

They stare at each other.

Loki clears his throat. “I’m sorry, but did you need anything?”

“Just wanted to see how you were,” Tala says, shifting her weight.

“Thor’s asleep,” Loki says, again.

“Yes,” Tala says slowly. “And I wanted to see how _you_ were. How are you doing, Loki? Enjoying Refugio?”

Loki swallows, hand tightening on the side of the door.

“It’s not a trick question, _hijo_ ,” Tala says gently. “Can I come in?”

Loki nods silently, stepping aside to let her amble into the cottage. She looks around, nodding to herself, and sits herself at the dining table.

“I’ll go get some tea,” Loki mutters, and scurries to the kitchen.

When he returns, mugs and teapot in his hands, she’s at the balcony, examining the loom set out for him.

“The fishing wives say they’ve never met anyone who can stitch up a net neater than you do,” Tala says, still looking away from him. “Aside from old Anita, of course, but, old Anita’s woven more nets than I’ve taken breaths on this Earth, probably.”

“I’m sorry,” Loki says, “but what are you doing here?”

Tala turns around. “Like I said, _hijo_ , I just wanted to see how you were.”

Loki places the mugs and teapot on the table and starts pouring out the tea, busying himself.

“I’m fine,” he says, averting his eyes.

“I try to take care of everyone on this island,” Tala says. “We’ve got a small community, but it’s strong. I’m sorry I gave you such a rough welcome, but we have look out for each other out here.”

Loki nods, looking down at the steam curling from the mugs of tea.

“I’m fine,” he says again. “Thank you.”

“You sure about that?” Tala asks, raising an eyebrow. “Look, you can tell me.”

Loki’s hand tightens around a mug, and he shakes his head. “I don’t think you can help.”

Tala comes over and pulls out a chair. The scraping noise it makes is loud in the quiet dawn. As the sun rises, it spills out through the balcony, painting the room gold.

“Thor’s going to wake up soon,” Loki says quietly.

Tala sits down, the chair scraping on the floor again as she pushes herself closer to the table.

“Can’t I talk to you without Thor for a bit?” Tala asks.

Loki swallows. _He owns me_ , he wants to say. _I’m a slave, and he’s my master_. But it’s not quite true, is it? Loki isn’t quite sure what he is, anymore.

“I’m not—there are some things about me that can’t be fixed,” Loki says, shrugging.

Tala slides one of the mugs of tea into her hands, drumming her fingers on its sides.

“I’m not here to fix you, _hijo_. Just here to talk. Take a seat. Let’s have a chat.”

Despite himself, Loki sits. Tala grins at him, nodding.

“We used to be lovers,” Loki finds himself saying. It falls out of his mouth without much thought, and he wants to take the words back immediately.

“ _Oh_?” Tala asks, leaning forward.

Loki swallows, then nods. It would be foolish to plough through. Why is talking about this? But Tala’s eyes shine with expectation, and Loki finds himself continuing.

“We’re...not. Not anymore. The circumstances...they’re different, now. But I think I still…” Gods, what is he saying?

“For what it’s worth,” Tala says, taking a gulp of tea, “I think he’s still in love with you.”

“Do you think so?” Loki can’t help but ask, his head whipping up to look at her. He winces at the tone of hope in his voice. “I know he loves me,” Loki blurts out, “but is he _in_ love with me? And even if he was, would he want something—with me? I don’t—it’s so—” he bites his lip, staring deeply into his mug of tea.

“Oh, _hijo_ ,” Tala says, smiling. “Let me tell you. That boy? Is smitten. Head over heels. You should tell him. Make a move.”

“I couldn’t possibly,” Loki says. “I’m...I’m not…good enough for him. He deserves someone who isn’t broken.”

Tala slaps her palm down on the table. “Nonsense!” she says. “You’re a good kid, I can see that. Got a good heart in you. That’s all you need. A good heart and a little bit of luck.”

“People hurt me,” Loki whispers. “They...violated me. I can barely recognize myself. Thor is the best thing to happen to me and I don’t want to…” he feels his breath hitch, his eyes stinging with tears. “I don’t want to lose him.”

“You won’t. Trust me,” Tala says. “That boy loves you more than the universe. I can see it in his eyes when he looks at you.”

Loki brings his tea up to his mouth with trembling hands. He takes a sip, and then another, to calm himself down.

“The first time Thor came here, years ago, he was all messed up, let me tell you. Broken by grief, that boy. I knew him when he was sad, and I knew him when he was happier, and now that I know him when he’s with you? _Hijo_. That boy would do anything for you.”

“I don’t deserve him,” Loki sighs, then startles when Tala slaps the table again.

“Buuuuuullshit!” she crows. “Look at you! You’re a strong man! I’ve seen you down in those waves, swimming like a fish. And you’ve got a smile like an angel! The blue skin used to freak me out but it’s damn pretty on you, I have to say. You know how to handle yourself with children and you’ve even got the fish wives talking kindly of you. Can’t get a better recommendation than that, I’d say.”

Loki blinks at her outburst.

“You’re a catch and that Odinson would be lucky to have you,” Tala says with finality.

“I...do you think Thor likes my smile?”

“He thinks it’s the damn second coming of Christ Himself, bless his soul,” Tala says, nodding. “You don’t do it very often, but when you do, the heavens may have as well parted open over your head for all that Thor can’t take his eyes off of you.”

Loki can feel himself blushing, and he nods, taking a gulp of tea to cover his face.

“This has been...enlightening,” he says. “More tea?”

“Fill me up! Now, listen. Let me tell you about what you have to do…”

Thor shuffles into the room an hour later, yawning and rubbing sleep out of his eyes. Their cups of tea have long gone cold, and Tala has rambled into a story involving her ex-husband, her ex-wife, and something she calls a “barrel-thumper,” which Loki has yet to decipher.

“Is...everything okay here?” Thor asks, looking between them.

“It’s all good, Odinson,” Tala nods, her feet propped up on the table.

Thor turns to Loki, half-smiling. “Loki?”

“All good,” Loki nods.

—

The weeks pass. One day, Loki is at the table, reading a book pilfered from Asgard’s library and shoveling rice porridge with soy sauce into his mouth, when thunder cracks in the sky. It shakes their entire cottage, and Loki stands up, spoon clattering in his bowl.

“It wasn’t me,” Thor says, as he enters the house. He looks out the window and frowns. “Storm’s rolling in.”

A typhoon rolls into the island like a bilgesnipe through the forest: undaunted, unstoppable, chaotic.

Thor and Loki burrow into their home as the winds howl outside. When the electricity goes out, Thor pulls out a packet of candles and lights them with sparks from his fingers.

“It’s more authentic this way,” Thor says, and is delighted when Loki rolls his eyes.

The storm lasts a week. At the end of it, there’s a cry that goes around the island: the supply ships have docked at last. The Market has come.

—

Every month, ships come to Refugio bearing supplies and deliveries from the mainland. Merchant ships dock on the island’s main port, bringing with them whole ships’ worth of goods. There are boats filled to the brim with spices, and others with books, and others still bearing entertainment. There’s a boat like a floating garden, blooming with flowers and dripping with vines.

The island folk have strung up fairy lights across the dock, and there are lanterns hanging above their heads as they take their turn around the crowded Market.

Thor loses Loki to Sigyn as soon as they arrive, and he quietly follows behind them, heartened by the way Loki lets Sigyn hold his hand and drag him along.

“That’s a Jotun,” one of the merchants says, shocked, when Sigyn and Loki step up to look at a basket of bangles.

Loki flinches, dropping a bangle on the table, where it clatters noisily.

“And what of it?” Sigyn says, putting a hand to her hip.

The merchant looks around, as if asking for help, but none of the locals pay him any mind. Tala, with her gun slung over her shoulder, passes by and pats Loki’s shoulder heavily. In the end, the man shrugs as if to say “ _w_ _ell, stranger things have happened_.”

Thor buys as many potted plants as he can carry, and decorations for the upcoming Yule celebrations. Loki samples strange food, delicate orange spheres in nests of leaves, fuzzy brown fruits with sweet green meat. He buys a small case of tea from a land across the ocean, and a tiny sewing kit with a set of 6 threads and a golden needle. It fits perfectly into his pocket.

The night is hot, even as the breeze from the sea winds its way through the market. At one point during the night, Loki pulls his hair up in a knot on top of his head, baring the long line of his neck. When Loki bends down to look at something in Sigyn’s hands, Thor feels himself blush.

“Not very subtle, are you, Odinson,” Tala says, coming up next to him. Thor coughs, adjusting the pots in his arms and peering at her through the leaves.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Thor says.

Together, they watch as Loki, who has been dragged into a dance in the middle of the Market, expertly takes Sigyn through a waltz. The music turns into a swing, and Sigyn takes the lead.

Then a miracle happens: Loki throws his head back, and he laughs.

Thor feels his breath catch. His heart _aches_.

Tala glances at Thor from the side.

“The war was hard on all of us,” she says. “I never did know what you’d lost, the day you came here. But I’m glad to know you’ve found it, now.”

Thor cannot tear his eyes away from Loki, but he nods, acknowledging Tala’s words.

“Thank you for letting me stay, all those years ago. And for letting us stay, now—you have my gratitude, whatever that’s worth.”

“Well, you never did take up on your promise to visit again. And then one day you show up with a _Jotun_! The nerve, Odinson,” Tala says.

“It’s helped him...helped us more than I can say, being here,” Thor says.

“‘Course,” Tala says. “That’s Refugio for you, _hijo._  Now, you be kind to each other, all right?”

“It’s all I strive for,” Thor says, and stands up straighter as Loki walks towards him. Their eyes meet, and the smile that bursts into bloom on Loki’s face makes Thor feel as if his heart won’t stay entirely within his chest.

They take their treasures back home, arms full, their feet slipping and sinking into the sand. Loki follows behind and steps on the footprints Thor leaves behind, humming to himself.

It has been a good night, Thor thinks, as they arrive at their front door and slip out of their shoes. He bends down to set his plants on the ground.

“Thor?” Loki says, almost lost in the song of the sea and the whistle of the wind.

“Hmm?” Thor hums, turning to face Loki—who is suddenly very close, his face as a scant inch from Thor’s.

Loki presses the pads of his fingers to Thor’s cheek, meeting his eyes with no hesitation, though his hand is shaking.

Thor swallows, and slowly covers Loki’s hand with his own.

“It’s all right,” Thor says.

Loki leans in, slow, so very slow, until his lips brush Thor’s.

It is the sweetest kiss Thor has ever had. As is the second, and the third, and the countless others afterwards. Soon, they find themselves wrapped up in a tight embrace, Thor pressed up against the screen door and Loki with his arms thrown around Thor’s neck.

Their night is lost to it, to the kisses they give and receive with equal delight, to the simple joy of holding and being held.

“Thor,” Loki sighs, tangling his hands into Thor’s hair, “Thor.”

Every so often, Loki will pull back to watch Thor’s face intently, to trace his face his with his fingers. And then Loki will be drawn back, as if by magnetism, their every kiss as natural as the push and pull of the waves.

—

Loki remembers that kisses are his favorite thing. Thor bestows them upon him in the mornings, brushing his bristly beard against Loki’s cheek as Loki makes tea, or sets the table, or after he has come in from milking the goats. Thor kisses salt from his mouth when he climbs up from the water, nuzzles his cheek when it is smeared with dirt from the garden.

It thrills him every time Thor kisses him, but every time Thor turns his face to receive a kiss from Loki, it makes him so happy that it draws him to weeping.

“What’s wrong?” Thor asks, once, when Loki kisses him and has to pull away to wipe his tears.

“It is nothing,” Loki mumbles, rubbing his tears away with his knuckles, and Thor shakes his head.

“It is everything,” he says.

“I never thought I would have this again,” Loki whispers, and Thor gently draws him close and says, “You have it. You’ll have it for as long as you want it.”

And so Loki does, and he weeps for it.

Kisses become greetings, hi’s and hello’s exchanged for the press of lips to a cheek, to a forehead. They lose entire hours to kissing, sitting next to each other, bodies twisted to meet until they are aching from the position.

Carefully, they try new positions. Standing is good, and safe, but it is tiring. The bed is impossible, for now; even just having Thor lay down beside him makes his heart beat too fast, makes his head spin dangerously. Once, Thor opens his eyes and finds Loki looking back at him with eyes glazed, body stiff.

“Loki?” he murmurs, worried, sliding his hand into Loki’s hair.

“Master,” Loki mumbles, staring at Thor but not seeing him.

“It’s Thor, dear one,” Thor says softly, and gently guides Loki to sitting up.

“I’m sorry,” Loki says, shoulders dropping. He sighs and rubs his face with trembling hands.

“It’s all right,” Thor says, and leans close to let Loki kiss him.

They find that Thor’s lap is a good compromise. Loki can wrap himself around Thor without losing awareness of who he is with, not with hands that could only be Thor’s wrapped around his waist. Not when Loki can merely slide his hand down to Thor’s chest and feel his heartbeat.

It is easy to pull away and see Thor’s face, easy to pull away and have Thor let him go. And Thor always lets him go, and never tugs him back, always waits for Loki to lean back in out of his own volition.

Sigyn, of course, is delighted by this development. She gasps the first time she sees them kiss, a casual brush of their lips as they pass each other through the doorway, and claps so enthusiastically that Thor and Loki both blush.

Thor laughs and kisses Sigyn’s cheek too, and Loki, after a moment, leans in and kisses her other cheek.

—

Once, when their kisses have grown deeper, Loki breaks away with a gasp when he feels Thor’s cock, hard through his trousers. He shifts in Thor’s lap, looking down at the space between them.

“I’m sorry,” Thor mumbles gruffly, mortified, trying not to squirm.

“Don’t apologize,” Loki murmurs. Slowly, he takes Thor’s hand and guides it to the place between his legs.

“Loki,” Thor says, shaking his head, but Loki insists.

Loki sighs when Thor’s fingers press up against his cunt through his trousers, and he grinds down slowly, keeping his eyes on Thor’s face.

“I want it,” Loki whispers, still holding Thor’s hand in place. “I need you to know that I want it. I ache for you, Thor. But I don’t know if I can ever—if I’ll ever—”

“It’s all right,” Thor says, “whatever you need, dear one. If you want more, I’ll gladly try it with you.” Thor kisses Loki’s cheek. “And if all we ever do is kiss, I’ll be the happiest man in the Nine Realms.”

Loki sighs, letting go of Thor’s hand, which slides back to his hip.

“I hate being afraid,” Loki says, his mouth twisting.

“You’re the bravest person I’ve ever known,” Thor says.

“I’m terrified of your _cock_ ,” Loki says bitterly.

“It’s quite the formidable weapon,” Thor says, grinning.

“You are insufferable,” Loki says, and kisses him.

—

The children of Refugio take to following Loki and Thor around like a line of hermit crabs waiting for their turn to put on a new shell.

They’re walking around the tide pools as the sun sets, when the tide is at its lowest. The children are nimble, clambering over the exposed rocks with little difficulty while Loki treads carefully to keep his footing. Every so often, someone runs up to him to show him a shell, or a colorful slug, and he hums in approval at each one. One of the younger children, Jana, holds Loki’s hand, watching longingly as her brothers run around Thor’s legs further ahead.

“Be careful,” he tells her, as she hops from one rock to another.

Loki startles when Jana’s hand falls from his as she slips and loses her footing, skinning her knee against a rough outcropping of rock and coral.

“Hush, it’s all right,” he murmurs, steadying her when she cries out, and feels the peculiar sensation of his blood surging. Everything is clearer, suddenly, for only a moment: it is as if he can _hear_ Thor, in the distance, laughing with the other children, and he can feel the warmth of the setting sun beat against his skin. He shivers, shaking his head, and kneels down to take a closer look at Jana’s wound.

There isn’t one. Just smooth, brown skin. He presses his hand to her knee, confused.

“Loki?” she asks.

He swallows, looking up at her. “Are you all right?” he asks, when he finds his voice.

“Uh-huh,” she nods, then tugs at his hand.

“Come onnn, we have to go find some more starfish, you promised!”

“Of course,” Loki says, and tries to ignore the feeling of unease gathering in his stomach.

—

Loki is at his loom one late afternoon, weaving a blanket for Thor, who is away for the day, summoned by some Midgardian government to aid its people. He plucks at a thread, testing its tautness, and a clear, musical note rings out of it.

Loki pulls his hand back, curling it against his chest, watching as that thread continues to vibrate and then—it breaks.

Loki stands up so fast that he knocks his chair over.

He wishes he could feign ignorance, wishes he could pull this part of him back into the shadows and never have to think about it.

But he already knows, can taste it in his mouth, can feel it at the tips of his fingers.

He rushes to the bathroom, where there’s a mirror, stripping his shirt as he goes.

With his back to his reflection, he looks over his shoulder. Sees his back, scarred still by whip marks, gruesome on his blue skin. But it is as he has feared: the runes carved into him have faded, and his body has started to accept the seidr that flows around him.

And Loki can feel it already, can feel it trickle down his back, his spine, like a drop of rain. Can smell it in the air like an oncoming storm.

Loki stumbles from the bathroom and wrenches the kitchen cabinets open, hands flying through their contents until he finds a knife.

He knows what he must do.

—

The first cut is the hardest.

Loki’s head pounds as he holds the knife to his skin.

He has to. He _has_ to. His master won’t do it so Loki must, he must. He doesn’t want this power, doesn’t deserve it, it’s not _right_ , it’s not.

What is he? Confusion seeps through the cracks in his mind like water through gravel.

“Slave,” he chants to himself, “bitch, Jotun whore.”

Thor wouldn’t like it, Thor would be angry, Thor wouldn’t want Loki to hurt himself.

Thor wants Loki to keep his seidr, but it’s wrong, it’s wrong, he can’t.

Better to be blind, to be mute and deaf—he cannot _have this_ —cannot have life and power and strength— _he does not deserve he is a slave a whore_ —

He tries to recall the symbols, but he cannot, carves instead the runes for binding, for restriction, into his skin. It hurts. Of course it hurts, it is what Loki deserves.

It is painful. It does not feel like anything else.

“Loki?”

Loki looks up.

“Let the knife go,” Thor says.

“I need it,” Loki keens, “I need it. I need it, please.”

Before he can bring the knife back down, Thor has grabbed him by the neck and slammed him to the wall, hard. Loki cries out in pain.

“Let it go, Loki.”

Thor’s grip on Loki’s wrist is strong as iron. He squeezes, and electricity sparks from his hands.

Loki lets go of the knife with a sob.

Thor kicks it away, and it slides into a corner of the room. Still breathing heavily, he lets Loki go, and Loki slumps to his knees, holding his bloodied wrist to his chest.

“Thor,” Loki sobs, “Master.”

What is he?

Loki looks up at Thor, staring down at him in horror. Before Thor can move, Loki bolts, running away from the room, from Thor, from the house.

He runs and he runs, and he runs.

—

_The first thing Loki learns as a slave is how to kneel._

_They bind his knees so he cannot stand, muzzle him and keep him in the cages with the hounds so he knows he is no more than a dog. When at last they unbind him, and force him to stand, he falls under his own weight, his legs giving out beneath him._

_This is where you belong, you see,_ they tell him. _Now, crawl._

_The hard floor below his knees, his head bowed towards the ground: soon these things are a part of him, as integral as breathing. Kneeling means Loki is good. Kneeling means Loki is submissive. He is a good, submissive pet. It is what his master wants. And so he kneels, cock in his ass, his cunt, his mouth. He lets his shaking bones settle into any position his master wishes._

_“What are you?” his master asks, carding hands through Loki’s hair as his cock squelches in Loki’s cunt._

_“A whore, master,” Loki sobs._

_“A whore,” his master croons. “And what a good whore.”_

—And so he kneels, falls to his knees in the wet sand, unheeding of the water that laps up around him. He feels the sand give underneath him. Not the cool, dark tile of his master’s chambers in Sakaar. Not the soft carpet of Thor’s chambers in Asgard.

He has spent hours on his knees, years, decades, a lifetime.

—What are you?

_Jotun whore. Bitch. Slut._

Loki squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, his hair whipping around his face. He isn’t.

He’s not.

“I—my name is Loki. I am Loki. I am Loki, I am Loki. I—I am my own person. I belong only to—only to myself.”

_You belong only to yourself._

_It was never your fault._

_You will always be Loki._

But Thor—

Does Thor not own him?

Has Loki not given himself to Thor?

Would he not let Thor fuck him, use him the way Loki has been used by so many others?

But Thor—

Thor _hurt_ him, and that makes Loki retch, reaching around his neck to feel the bruises on his skin.

Thor hurt him, and Thor will fuck him, and Loki will be grateful for it because he is a slave, a fucktoy, whore, slut, Jotun bitch—

“No—” he chokes out, shaking his head. He grips his hair in his hands and moans.

He breathes and he—opens his eyes and he—

He remembers Thor, young and golden, kissing him outside the Allfather’s Council Chamber; remembers Thor, arrogant, cheeks stung by the harsh winter of Jotunheim, asking Laufey for Loki’s hand in marriage; remembers Thor at war, the terrible sight of his lightning, the way his immense power made lust pool in Loki’s belly, inappropriate, horrifying, inevitable; Thor, kneeling in front of Loki, hands twitching to touch him, but refraining; Thor, his hand a vise around Loki’s throat and he remembers—

—himself—

He remembers Thor watching as Loki’s back was whipped raw.

He remembers the first time he was raped, drugged to desperate arousal and made to beg for his fucking.

He remembers Thrym, holding a blade to Loki’s throat and forcing him to kneel in the blood of his family.

And then further back, the memories seeping into his mind like water through sand, and then like a torrent, racing down the side of a mountain:

He remembers meeting Thor for the first time, how Thor had raised Loki’s hand to his mouth to kiss it, and Loki had punched him, expecting Thor to bite him; remembers learning how to dye thread, how to spin fibers, how to weave a tapestry; remembers sparring with his brothers, learning how to be nimble and quick against brute force; remembers the first time he’d ever used seidr, a light flickering into being on his open palm.

He remembers riding on his father’s shoulders on a hunt, his earliest memory, just the sensation of the wind in his face, of sunlight through the pine trees.

He remembers terror, and fear, and submission, and worthlessness.

He remembers happiness. He remembers a seed growing in his chest, remembers flax flowers in bloom, remembers the bitter taste of seawater in the back of his throat.

What is he? Who is he?

—

_Thor asks him, once, when they are on the shores of Aurgelmir, skipping stones into its calm surface._

_Why do they not call him Laufeyson? Is he not the son of Laufey?_

_Thor is a poor stone-skipper. His stones skip once, maybe twice, before they sink to the bottom of the ocean._

_Loki flicks his wrist and his stone skips once, twice, five, seven times before it sinks._

_I am the son of Laufey, and his heir, says Loki. But that is not all I am. I am meant to be King._

_My name is my own. I am Loki._

—

He trembles as he stands, his knees weak. He falters, but he does not fall.

He does not kneel. He will never kneel again.

—

Thor drops the knife into the sink with a clatter, and turns the faucet off. Moments ago, that knife was wet with Loki’s blood. It gleams menacingly at Thor.

He hears the goats bleat outside, and the two doors to the house swing open and shut.

“Loki—” Thor starts, and stops at the sight of him. Wet to the bone, but his eyes are bright, his head unbowed.

He’s holding his wrist to his chest. There is a ring of bruises around his neck in the shape of Thor’s fingers.

Thor swallows, guilt creeping up his throat. He wishes he could choke on it.

“I can,” Loki starts slowly, throat bobbing as he swallows. “I can leave now,” Loki says, staring right at Thor, “I can leave and you’ll never find me. You’ll never hurt me again. No one will.”

“Except yourself,” Thor says, before he can stop himself.

“I belong only to myself,” Loki says. “Isn’t that what you told me?”

“Don’t go,” Thor pleads.

“Is that an order?” Loki asks, deadly soft.

“No,” Thor says quickly. “No,” he says again. “But I can’t...Loki, I can’t lose you again.”

“And if I choose to leave?”

If Loki chooses to leave, what wouldn’t Thor do to get him back? Unease coils in Thor’s stomach at the question. Could he let Loki go, if Loki asked for it?

“Would you hunt me down? Would you chase me through the realms and bring me back? Would you leash me like a dog, master?” Loki spits out, his body starting to tremble.

“No,” Thor whispers, and prays it is the truth. “Never, Loki.”

Loki falls back against the wall with a shuddering breath.

“I am so sorry,” Thor says, forcing himself to meet Loki’s eyes.

Loki scans Thor’s face for a long moment, and then he nods.

“You will never touch me like that again,” Loki says, voice calm, though his hands shake. He twists his fingers together, hard.

Thor nods, throat too thick for words.

“Never again,” Thor chokes out. “I swear to you.”

All at once, Loki seems to deflate, and he wraps his arms around himself, swaying on his feet. His knees buckle, but he stays standing.

“Thor,” he whispers, reaching out blindly, “Thor.”

“I’m so sorry,” Thor says, carefully drawing Loki into his arms, “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sorry too,” Loki says, voice quiet and frantic, “I was so scared. I couldn’t think. I’m—I’m broken, Thor. There’s something wrong with me. I couldn’t stop, I couldn’t make myself stop. There’s something—I’m not—”

“It’ll be okay,” Thor says. “You’re sick, Loki, and that’s okay. You’re not broken. You’re hurt. And I hurt you, and that was unforgivable. I’m no better than the monsters who have hurt you.”

“You are nothing like them,” Loki says fervently, “You’ve given me so much of myself, so much more than—than I expected to ever have again.”

“I know myself because of you,” Loki continues, pressing his forehead to Thor’s. “And I don’t want to forget again. I don’t want to forget.”

Loki’s voice breaks as he says, “Thor, I don’t want to lose myself.”

Thor holds Loki close, rocking them together.

“I’ll help you, and so will the others. You’re not alone, not anymore.” Thor caresses Loki’s cheek and says, “Talk to me, Loki. Or talk to Sigyn, or Tala. We want to help you, love. You don’t have to carry this all by yourself.”

Neither of them sleep that night. They crawl into Loki’s bed, and Loki rests with his hands pressed to Thor’s chest and his face pressed to Thor’s neck.

There is so much power in these hands, Thor thinks, as he gentles his thumbs across Loki’s palms.

“Talk to me,” Thor pleads softly, “tell me what you’re feeling inside.”

Loki unspools his thoughts as best as he can for Thor: how he is terrified of power and the freedom it brings. How the thought of it tears him apart. For so long he has been one thing, and now he is to be another.

He exhausted and hoarse by the end of it, sighing heavily and burrowing into Thor’s arms.

“I know it’s overwhelming,” Thor murmurs, “but this seidr is yours by right. By blood and by sweat. It’s part of you, and it never should have been taken away from you.”

“What if I can’t control it?” Loki whispers, “what if it comes back and I don’t know how to use it? What if I hurt someone?”

“Do you remember how bad I was at handling my seidr?” Thor continues. “You always told me to be patient. That seidr is a tool to be wielded, just like any other.”

“I didn’t think you listened to me at all when I talked about seidr,” Loki says, with a soft, tired laugh.

“I did. I hung onto every word.” Thor says, stroking Lok’s hair. “When you wielded seidr, you were the most majestic creature I’d ever laid eyes on. You deserve that again, Loki.”

“I don’t feel like I deserve anything,” Loki says, closing his eyes. “For so long, I was told—” he takes a shuddering breath.

“When you have your seidr back,” Thor says, “we will go to Sakaar and leave the place in ruins.”

Loki shudders against Thor, and it takes a moment for Thor to realize he is laughing.

“I want to,” Loki confesses, wiping stray tears from his cheeks.

“You will be glorious,” Thor murmurs, kissing Loki’s forehead. “And I will be there by your side to watch.”


	4. Chapter 4

Loki observes himself in the mirror in the morning, ties his hair up on top of his head to better look at the bruises that circle around his neck like a collar.

“I’m sorry,” Thor says, by the doorway, his blue eyes mournful.

Loki shrugs, and says, “It will heal. Will you cut my hair?”

Thor blinks at him. “It won’t be very good. And we have no scissors.”

Loki nods. “Use the knife,” he says.

They walk out into the balcony, where Loki sits at his loom and stares out at the sea, while Thor stands behind him. Slowly, he cuts through Loki’s hair. The knife is sharp, and cuts easily. The strands fall to the floor and get swept out into the sea by the wind.

Thor cuts until Loki’s hair barely brushes the back of his neck, and waits patiently while Loki shakes his hair out, running his hands through it.

“I’ll get Sigyn to fix it,” Loki murmurs, touching his tips and feeling the mess Thor has made.

“How does it feel?” Thor asks.

Loki sways his head from side to side.

“Lighter,” he says. He turns around and meets Thor’s eyes.

“How do I look?” he asks, fidgeting with the strands of his hair.

“Young,” Thor says, with a small smile.

Loki nods absently, and says, “I like it.”

Then he frowns and says, “I hated having all that hair. Hated how hot it would get, hated how it would get in my face while they—” he inhales deeply and releases it in a sigh.

“I didn’t like it,” he says, “so I changed it, and that’s okay. I can do that now.”

“You can,” Thor says. “You don’t have to keep the things you don’t want to keep.”

Loki says, “And I can find new things to keep. Things I can have for myself.” Loki looks up at Thor and smiles. “Like you. Thor.”

Thor nods, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to Loki’s forehead.

“Like me,” he says. “Always.”

—

Sigyn notices the bruises on Loki’s neck immediately.

“I’m fine,” Loki says, steadying the basket of eggs she’s holding.

She opens her mouth to ask, then frowns and says, “I’m going to kill him.” She looks past Loki, at the front door, as if Thor will materialize there. Sigyn is tiny, all freckled brown skin and curly black hair. She barely reaches Loki’s shoulder, but she looks like a warrior like this, eyes flashing, her hands curled into fists.

“I know,” Loki says, “but I’d really prefer if you didn’t.”

“How dare he,” she says, shaking, her voice hard. Loki can see tears starting to form in the corner of her eyes.

“We were both in the wrong,” Loki says, and shows her his arm, where the knife wounds are only just beginning to scab over. “And I am not so fragile.”

“He should know better,” she says, shaking her head. She puts the eggs down on the ground and wrings her hands.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Better, now,” he says.

“We’re friends, right, Loki?” she asks, which takes him aback.

“I...yes,” he says, because they are. They’re friends.

“Promise me you’ll tell me when you feel like hurting yourself? Please?”

Loki swallows. “I promise,” he says.

She inhales, deep, and lets it out slowly. “Okay,” she says.

“And Thor’s not—you have to tell me if he’s hurting you,” she says seriously.

“I promise,” Loki says.

“Okay,” she says again, worrying her bottom lip.

“Sigyn,” Loki says, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Thank you. I’m all right. Or I will be, I promise.”

She nods, though she looks unconvinced.

And then: “Can I ask about your hair?” she says, wincing.

Loki laughs. “Please fix it. Thor said he would do a horrible job, and he did.”

“He really did,” Sigyn says, wrinkling her nose. “But I’ll make it better,” she says, smiling.

Loki clears his throat. “I...thank you, Sigyn. I truly am honored to be your friend.”

They grin at each other, and Loki smiles and spreads his arms. Sigyn throws herself at him, hugging him tight.

“You better be,” she says, “because I’m going to be doing God’s work to fix that mess.”

—

Their lives settle into a routine again, days on the island passing syrupy-slow. For the most part, life is quiet here, and calm. The fishermen wake up earlier than everyone else, going out to sea while it is still dark. Often, Loki watches them from the cliff, watches the glimmer of their lights in the dawn.

Then, he walks back home, to where Thor is beginning to wake up, and he makes tea in the kitchen, sitting at the kitchen table while he waits for Thor to find him. And then, morning kisses, always a bright, new pleasure. The rub of Thor’s beard against his skin, the taste of his mouth, still lazy with sleep. His hands, wandering Loki’s skin, but always so careful. And they are careful with their time, when they kiss, careful not to lose hours to it, though sometimes they cannot help themselves.

Along with kisses, Loki finds a new pleasure: eating. He savors it, savors being able to eat at his own time, with food he chooses to eat himself. He and Thor teach themselves how to cook, learning from the fishwives. Loki learns how to gut a fish, how to pick apart their little slivers of bones. Learns how to tell when a fish is fresh and when it is not. Learns how to taste again, how to take pleasure in the act of nourishment.

Most meals go like this: breakfast is eggs, fish, dried or fresh, tomatoes. Sigyn is at the table with them every so often. On the days that they go down to the sea, they are followed by children, fascinated still by these tall, foreign creatures.

Lunch is fresh fish hauled in by the fishermen; Thor and Loki go to the market and pick out what looks good: parrotfish or mackerel, tuna or squid. They eat them with seaweed doused in vinegar. Then, they spend their day outside of their little house, by the garden or by the sea, reading or weaving or simply breathing next to each other. When the sun has passed over the sky, Loki starts to swim. Thor loves pressing against him when he is fresh out of the water, kissing the droplets of saltwater from his skin.

Dinner is often a communal affair, when they and their neighbors gather in the little town hall, an open-air hut with rows of benches, and they share food and drink and laughter.

And so Loki grows strong from swimming and from seafood, from fresh eggs and goat milk and rice, and the fruits they manage to grow in their sandy garden with the help of Thor’s seidr: hand-sized melons and pineapples they can fit in their palms. A patch of small strawberries that Thor eats by the handful. Mangoes, of course, and coconuts. Plenty of coconuts.

He goes to sleep at night aware of his own contentment. When he wakes in the morning, there are things to look forward to.

It is a revelation.

—

Loki's seidr comes back in unexpected bursts: in fish gathering around him curiously when he swims, in birds that land in his hair and shoulders when he is resting by the open window of his room. Once, he sneezes and a burst of snow showers down on him. Often, when he kisses Thor, the threads of their clothes grow wild, running alive, changing colors. The linens he has woven for their bedsheets and for Thor’s clothes burst into a riotous bloom of flax flowers. For a week, the flowers trail behind Thor wherever he walks.

Even more unexpected is the ease with which Loki finds himself accepting these events. Seidr feels comfortable, feels like the ebb and flow of waves around his body. Feels like the sway of palm trees in the wind. Feels like the way he settles into Thor’s lap, easy, like he belongs there. Feels like the way Thor’s body feels against his when he wraps himself around Loki from behind.

It feels—good. It feels _right_. Seidr settles upon Loki’s shoulders like a well-loved blanket. He learns to wrap himself in it and realizes, for the first time in a long time, that he _deserves_ this.

—

They are on the couch, one day, Loki on Thor’s lap, pressed chest-to-chest.

“I want to try something,” Loki murmurs, pulling away from their kiss and resting his forehead against Thor’s.

“Mmm,” Thor responds, eyes closed, rubbing his nose against Loki’s.

“Anything, beloved,” Thor murmurs, his thumb stroking Loki’s cheek. He has taken to calling Loki that endearment again, and it makes Loki blush purple every time.

“I need you to be patient with me, but I also need you to trust me,” Loki says.

Thor opens his eyes and nods.

Loki takes a deep breath.

Slowly, he reaches down to the fastening of his trousers, popping the button open and sliding his hand between his legs. He pulls out his cock, half-hard just from kissing Thor, and gives it a long, languid stroke, exhaling heavily from the feeling. It has been so long since he has touched himself of his own volition, always having been forced to get himself off, to prove he enjoyed his violation—

He jerks when Thor’s fingers touch his cheek.

“Loki,” Thor says, serious and solemn, though his eyes are dark with lust. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I want to,” Loki says stubbornly. “I want to try.”

Thor bites his lip, hard enough to break skin. Loki leans down and eases Thor’s lip from between his teeth with his mouth, licking and tasting blood.

“Mmm— _ahh_ ,” Loki sighs, stroking himself off, his cock jerking in his hand. He’s leaking messily all over his hand, and he can feel his cunt growing wet, can feel himself throbbing and _aching_.

“It’s been so long,” Loki gasps, “I’m not going to—I’m not—Thor, please, touch me, please—my cunt—”

Thor draws Loki down to him, kissing him deeply while his other hand goes to Loki’s stomach, stroking the muscles there, tensed in pleasure.

“Please,” Thor murmurs, breath hot against Loki’s lips.

“Yes,” Loki breathes, “yes, yes yes. Touch me, Thor.”

Thor moans softly against Loki’s mouth as his fingers slide against the swollen, wet lips of Loki’s cunt. Loki’s hips jerk, and he grinds down with a shudder, his hand moving faster on his cock.

The rough calluses on Thor’s fingers drive him crazy, making him whine, open-mouthed and desperate. For what feels like eons, Thor’s two fingers only rub up against his rim, back and forth, slick and slippery and indescribably good.

Loki’s humping his fingers, now, lost to the pleasure, but grounded by Thor’s constant murmur in his ear. “Beloved,” he says, “Loki, oh, darling, sweetheart, you’re beautiful. You’re perfect.”

Loki comes with Thor’s voice in his ear and Thor’s fingers on his cunt.

“Thor,” he sobs, legs twitching as he slumps against Thor’s chest.

“Loki,” Thor croons, nuzzling into Loki’s hair.

Loki takes a moment to drowse in Thor’s arms, dizzy with pleasure, his cunt and cock twitching from orgasm.

“Thor,” Loki mumbles, nosing at the length of Thor’s neck, “put your fingers in.”

Thor swallows, looking down between them, to the open v of Loki’s legs, his cock still half-hard.

“You’ll tell me to stop if you need to?” Thor says, brushing a strand of hair off Loki’s forehead.

Loki nods, then guides Thor’s hand between his legs, urging Thor on.

He gasps, guttural, when Thor slides two fingers in where he’s still wet and twitching, and he clenches around them with a satisfied sigh, fucking himself lazily.

“Stay there,” he mumbles, eyes fluttering closed. He rolls his hips drowsily, sighing.

“As you wish,” Thor laughs softly, leaning up for a kiss.

Loki grants it to him, ever magnanimous.

—

Thor knows something is wrong when he wakes before Loki. When he sits up from bed and Loki is a still blue lump curled up in his sheets, Thor gets to his feet with a frown.

“Loki?” he asks, and, after a moment’s hesitation, lays a hand on Loki’s shoulder. He gasps. Loki is burning through his clothes, and when Thor looks closer, he’s covered in a sheen of sweat, skin turned purple in patches.

“Mmmasterr?” Loki slurs, opening weary eyes and blinking up at Thor.

“Loki,” Thor frowns. Loki hasn’t called him that in weeks, months.

“I need to go ask Sigyn to call for a doctor,” Thor says, regretting that he’d declined Stark’s offer to outfit their home with more modern fixtures.

“I’ll be back very soon,” Thor promises. “Please rest.”

“Master,” Loki mumbles, eyes unfocused. “Want to be good for you.”

Thor swallows, brushing Loki’s hair from his face.

“I’ll be back,” Thor says again, and hurries out of the house.

—

Loki is on fire. He can’t think through the smoke and the haze, can’t move his exhausted limbs, not even to spread his legs. Perhaps this is a new aphrodisiac that his master has decided to try out on him. He doesn’t feel the need to fuck, but that is a relief.

It is always worse when he is made to want it.

He presses his pounding head to the cool, soft pillow. His entire body is shivering, but it’s just the drug. His mouth is dry.

“M-master,” he mumbles, when he hears footsteps coming closer.

“It’s me, Loki,” Thor says, pressing a cloth to his forehead.

“Thor?” Loki asks, furrowing his brows. He presses up to the cold, wet pressure and sighs.

“Don’t leave,” he mumbles.

“I won’t,” Thor says, and gently rubs his thumb against the length of Loki’s horn, lulling him to sleep.

—

Just a fever, Biya says, after she examines Loki.

“A particularly high one, probably exacerbated by this heat. A Jotun on the beach. Never thought I’d see it myself.”

“How do you know about Jotun physiology?” Thor asks as he sees her out, fiddling with the medicine packets she’d handed him.

“I was in the war,” she says simply, stepping into the slippers she’d left by the door.

Thor nods. “Thank you. For not turning him away.”

She nods distractedly, then reaches out to grasp Thor’s wrist in a surprisingly strong grip. Thor forces himself to meet her eyes and almost blanches at the fury in them.

“Listen, Odinson, I don’t know what you’ve done to him—”

Thor physically steps back, reeling, his eyes clenched shut in pain, and cannot even find it in himself to be angry at the accusation.

Biya must understand his distress, because she softens.

“He’s been hurt,” she says, “horribly.”

“I know,” Thor says, barely able to bring his voice above a whisper. “I brought him here to help him,” Thor continues, voice turned to pleading. “Please. He is important to me.”

“Listen,” Biya says, hesitating before she continues, “I used to have a license in psychiatry. Specialized in battle trauma. Not exactly what your boy has gone through, but at this point I’m going to bet he needs an ear to listen as much as anything.”

“Thank you,” Thor says, breathing deep and exhaling. He meets Biya’s eyes and nods.

“He may be Jotun,” Biya says, “but if people on this island find out you’ve done something heinous to him, we won’t hesitate to run you out.”

“And I appreciate that,” Thor says.

Biya searches his face for a good long while before nodding once, resolutely. She turns around and plods off, kicking up sand in her wake.

—

Loki wakes in the middle of the night and can barely move, swathed tight with blankets. A cloth falls off of his forehead as he sits up, clawing himself free of his linen prison.

Loki can hear the moon.

He turns his head slowly, as if he is swimming in syrup, and finds Thor curled up on the mattress on the floor beside his bed.

He stands, swaying.

He can hear the hermit crabs, their claws clicking, their shells heaving.

He can hear the sea sigh as it kisses the shore.

In the light of the moon, Loki wanders into the sea, wading ankle-deep in beds of seagrass.

He can hear the stars.

Loki walks until he is chest-deep into the water, calming the rough waves with a motion of his hand. When he reaches his hand up, moonlight pours into his palm. When he tugs, it falls as thread into his palms. Loki stares at the thread, holding it up to his eyes. With a gesture, he pulls up a thread of water. And then, thrusting his hand into the air in front of him, he plucks a thread of seidr from the universe.

Slowly, he begins to weave the threads around his hands, creating a web, a cat’s cradle. He feels power sing in his bones.

He remembers.

—

_“Do you know how ice was first crafted, my son?”_

_Loki sits on his father’s knee, fingers curled around his spread-open palm._

_“With seidr, Papa,” he says._

_“Seidr and salt and light,” Laufey says, “by the greatest weavers of our House.”_

_Laufey strokes a hand down Loki’s back and said, “And someday, you will be a weaver greater even than them.” As Laufey speaks, ice forms on his palm, crystallizing into the shape of a feather._

_Loki claps his hands in delight._

_“Teach me how,” he demands._

_Laufey laughs. “Seidr is like a stream, dear one. It is all around you, flowing everywhere all at once. You only have to reach your hand out and touch it. Close your eyes. Can you feel it?”_

_Loki squeezes his eyes shut, clenching his little fists at the same time. Laufey holds in his laugh at the way Loki puffed up his cheeks in exertion. And then—_

_“I can feel it, Papa!” Loki says, eyes flying open. He opens the palm of his tiny hand and spikes of ice erupt from it, startling Loki to tears._

_“Hush, little one,” Laufey manages to say through his shock. He closes his palm around Loki’s hand and the ice melts into water, which drips down onto the floor._

_“Papa,” Loki sniffles._

_Laufey places his hand underneath Loki’s chin and pushes his head up._

_“Chin up, Loki,” he says. “This seidr is your birthright, and it will listen to you. Speak clearly, my son, and do not be afraid.”_

—

Thor wakes with a startle and jumps to his feet when a peal of thunder rattles through the house. He blinks, disoriented, and realizes that it is someone banging on the front door. He only has to glance at the bed and realize Loki isn’t in it before he’s running.

The door opens to reveal Sigyn, disheveled, worrying her hands the way Loki does.

“Thor,” she says, “you have to see this.”

Then Sigyn turns quickly and runs towards the cliff.

Thor follows, though he can already see Sigyn means. Erupting from the water are shards of ice, as large as Thor and twice as tall.

And there, a few hundred meters from the beach, is an ice floe, where Thor can just about make out a familiar blue figure, laying on his side as if sleeping.

Thor runs, sand flying behind him, forgetting Mjolnir in his panic. He stumbles down the steps along the side of the cliff and scrambles into the water, swimming furiously towards Loki. He swallows water, coughs, and keeps swimming. His eyes sting painfully from the salt, and the waves push him away, back towards the shore.

Eventually, he hauls himself up to the ice floe and kneels beside Loki’s body, which is covered in a layer of tiny ice crystals that melt as soon as Thor’s fingers touch Loki’s skin.

“Loki,” Thor says, pressing his fingers to Loki’s cheek.

Loki’s eyes open slowly. He lifts his head slightly, then lowers it back to the ice with a sigh.

“I’m sleepy,” he mumbles.

Thor can’t help but laugh in relief. He looks back to the shore, and sees that Sigyn has found a boat and is heading towards them. He waves at her.

“You’ll be comfier on a bed, love,” Thor says. “Can I take you back? I’ll carry you.”

“I can stand,” Loki mumbles, and pushes himself up to a seated position. He yawns, raising his arms above his head in a stretch, raining tiny crystals of ice down on himself.

“Oh,” he says. And then to Thor, “What am I doing here?” He looks down at his hands, at the ice floe he’s on, and then back to the shore.

“I didn’t—hurt anyone, did I?” he asks, brow furrowed with worry. He shakily goes up to his feet, wrapping his hands around Thor’s arm for support as he finds his strength.

“No, it’s all right,” Thor says. “You can undo it, yes?”

“I think so,” Loki says. For a moment, they stare at each other, and then, as they are wont to do whenever they are near, they kiss, soft and slow.

Loki sighs as he pulls away, drawing Thor close.

“How do you feel?” Thor asks, gently stroking Loki’s back.

“I feel _very_ good,” Loki says with a grin. He leans in and bites at Thor’s neck and Thor makes a sound of surprise.

“Beloved,” Thor groans.

There’s a _thump_ as Sigyn’s boat hits their ice floe, and together they turn towards her as she makes a noise of triumph.

“Loki!” she says, grinning. “What the hell have you done to my island?”

—

When the boat touches the shore, Loki hops off and makes a deft motion with his hand. All at once, the spikes of ice turn into water, which become part of the sea.

Thor feels something in his heart settle at the sight of it, at how easily Loki wields his seidr again, the upright line of his back, his unbowed head, his unburdened shoulders, even just for this brief moment. This is Loki as he was always meant to be. 

Sigyn hugs Loki tight, and he sways with her for a few moments, holding her back just as tight.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” she says, and lets go.

Thor and Loki walk back home, hands clasped between them, and Loki will not stop leaning in to drink kisses from Thor’s mouth. He nuzzles Thor’s neck hungrily, murmuring, “You smell like lightning.”

“And you smell like snow,” Thor laughs, pressing kisses along Loki’s jaw. Loki’s seidr sings to him, sings to the storm and the thunder inside him. It is intoxicating. He cannot get enough of Loki’s skin, of his wicked hands, of his voice.

“Take me to bed,” Loki says, holding Thor’s face in his hands. “I want to feel you inside me.”

“Beloved,” Thor sighs, knowing he would give Loki anything he asked.

—

_It is winter in Asgard, and Thor is restless. Loki has spent every winter since their first meeting as a guest in Thor’s home. He is set to arrive today, so Thor has been making a nuisance of himself in the training grounds, the stables, the kitchens, to distract himself. His powers have been getting stronger, and he finds he can’t concentrate on keeping them in check when he thinks upon Loki. Just the mere flitter of Loki’s smile in his mind makes static run up his arms._

_The last they had seen each other was in Jotunheim’s summer months, when Thor had been invited to travel with the royal family as they made their tour of the kingdom, from the capital in the south to the tribes in the north._

_The trip had been educational, to say the least. He had learned all of the sounds Loki made when Thor licked his cunt and sucked his cock. Had learned the taste of Loki’s mouth, the delicious scrape of his horns on his skin. Their time at the northern palace was spent in Loki’s chambers, Thor constantly cajoling Loki from his loom by the window, where he wove, often naked, to Thor’s detriment. Weaving and fucking was all Loki did that summer, which is one thing more than Thor did._

_Coming into their powers have made them both insatiable, the storms inside them calling to each other relentlessly. And there is no reason to resist. Indeed, it is almost expected of them, as they come of age. There is no use pretending otherwise._

_They have written each other letters in their months apart, as bold as they dared. Loki has been shameless, describing in full detail how badly he wanted Thor’s cock in him. How he would take Thor apart with his cock when they met again._

_Thor had tried to make it known how badly he desired Loki as well. He had never felt so inadequate than when trying to match Loki’s eloquence with his own words. They were heavy in his hand, and he fought not to be embarrassed by his poor letter-writing skills. If Loki was ever displeased, he never wrote of it, only returned Thor’s clumsy ardour with his own beautifully-written filth._

_Thor bounces on the balls of his feet, opening the door to his chambers to get ready to meet the Jotun delegation in the audience hall._

_And there Loki is on his bed, one slim blue hand between his splayed-open legs._

_“Thor,” Loki purrs, a sound with which Thor has become well-acquainted._

_He watches, transfixed, as Loki throws his head back in a guttural moan, and a wave of seidr bursts out of his body as he comes._

_He immediately slides his fingers into his mouth._

_“Are you going to just stand there?” Loki grins, sucking lewdly on one finger. The room is heavy with seidr, with magical potency. It makes Thor want to call a storm. It makes his mouth water._

_He shuts the door behind him, and locks it._

_“Does your father know you’re here?” he asks Loki, stripping as he comes close._

_“Let’s not talk about my father,” Loki says._

_“It’s my head on the line,” Thor mutters. Laufey adores Loki entirely, which Thor knows is the only reason Loki doesn’t act more brazen outside of closed doors._

_“I want your head between my legs,” Loki laughs._

_And, really, who is Thor to resist?_

—

“There’s a saying on Midgard,” Thor says, staring up at the ceiling. “The soul is willing but the flesh is weak.” He drums his fingers on his chest. “Please don’t grip so tightly, beloved.”

“Sorry,” Loki says from somewhere lower down on Thor’s body, and loosens the hold he has on Thor’s cock, which he has been examining for the better part of ten minutes.

Their first rule is that Thor is not to lay his hands on Loki unless Loki explicitly says otherwise, so Thor keeps his hands on his chest, waiting.

“Come on,” Loki has been murmuring to himself, “come on, you can do this. You’ve taken bigger.” Which, frankly, Thor couldn’t quite stop himself from getting affronted by that.

“For full disclosure,” Thor says, trying not to squirm, “I haven’t fucked anyone since you.”

Loki makes a noise, looking up at Thor in surprise. “Thor...it’s been years.”

“I was at war,” Thor says defensively, but it’s worth it to see Loki smile, coy and teasing.

Worth it when Loki hums, and leans down to lick at the head of Thor’s cock.

Thor closes his eyes and tries not to push into it, but it’s difficult when Loki starts sucking. He’s very, very good. Thor tries not to think about why.

Loki is noisy with it, noisier than Thor remembers. He makes soft whimpers and grunts when Thor’s cock hits the back of his throat, moans around Thor’s cock and suckles noisily.

Still—Loki was right. It’s been years. Thor comes embarrassingly fast, and Loki swallows it down without hesitation, and returns to suckling devotedly at Thor’s soft cock, as if in worship.

“Loki,” Thor murmurs.

Loki pulls off and looks at him, and his eyes are blown wide, unseeing.

Thor swallows. “Come up here?” he asks, and Loki obeys.

“Can I touch you?” Thor asks, and hesitates still even when Loki nods.

“Hey,” Thor murmurs, gently cupping Loki’s cheek.

Loki blinks slowly, and then his eyes focus on Thor, and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Did I—” he asks, brow furrowed.

“I think so,” Thor says. “I’m sorry. I should have stopped. Did I hurt you?”

Loki shakes his head, “I’m not so fragile, Thor. I’m all right.”

“Do you want to keep going?” Thor asks, stroking Loki’s cheek gently.

“Maybe later?” Loki asks, voice small.

Thor gently rolls them to their sides and kisses Loki’s forehead. “Whatever you need, love.”

—

In the morning, they are back at it, Loki grinding down on Thor’s thigh, his legs wrapped around Thor. Their mouths separate for the barest of moments before they are pressed back together.

“I never thought I’d want to be touched— _ahh, Thor_ —like, like this again,” Loki gasps, arching his back as Thor gently thumbs at his nipples. “But it seems I desire you entirely,” Loki murmurs, dizzy with pleasure. He curls his arms around Thor’s neck and lets Thor kiss his neck and bite at his nipples with blunt teeth, shivering and purring in delight.

“Beloved,” Loki sighs, and jerks when Thor moans at that, right up against Loki’s pulse point.

“I want, I want your cock,” Loki breathes, whimpering towards the end.

“Don’t want to hurt you,” Thor mumbles against Loki’s throat.

“You won’t,” Loki says, “I want it.” And he does, he knows he does, can feel himself unravelling at the mere thought of Thor’s cock inside him. His hips jerk against Thor and he shivers, whining softly, when Thor’s fingers slide between his legs.

“Thor,” Loki gasps, “Oh, _Thor_.”

Two fingers inside him, and, oh, Loki could ride them until he came, he could, but he wants more than this. He quivers around Thor, mouth open, gasping.

“Inside, please, I need—”

Thor rolls him onto his back.

Loki shudders, his vision going blurry for a moment before he snaps back into himself and he can’t breathe, suddenly, can’t move, can’t—

“Loki!” Thor is saying, helping Loki sit up.

Loki puts trembling hands over his face and sobs, once. He takes a deep breath.

“Fuck,” Loki says.

“There’s no rush,” Thor murmurs, from beside him. “You don’t have to force yourself.”

“But I _want_ it,” Loki says, voice perilously close to a whine.

“I know, love,” Thor says.

Loki sighs, rubbing at his face in frustration.

“Let’s go for a walk,” Thor suggests.

“Fine,” Loki says, standing up abruptly and jerking his clothes back on. As he stomps to the doorway, he slows down, waiting for Thor to catch up.

He takes Thor’s hand in his, leans over to press a kiss to Thor’s shoulder, and leads Thor out of the house.

—

They end up sitting by the edge of the cliff, something they’d done before, but used to fill Thor with worry. Loki without his seidr had been vulnerable, and a fall from this height could have hurt him, badly. But with Loki as he is now, Thor supposes he could push him off and Loki would fall gracefully on his feet and curtsy upon touching the ground. It’s reassuring, to say the least.

Loki is quiet, pensive after what happened earlier, and Thor leaves him to his thoughts, only stays close and offers his shoulder for Loki to rest his head upon.

“Do you think I’ll ever be fixed?” Loki asks.

Thor blinks, turning to look at him. He presses his lips to Loki’s skin and kisses him softly.

“I don’t think you’re broken in the first place,” Thor says.

Loki laughs, hollow. “Thor, you can be honest with me. I can’t even fuck.”

“Many people can’t,” Thor says. “That doesn’t make them broken.”

“I wish you weren’t so damn reasonable,” Loki says.

“Beloved,” Thor says, taking Loki’s hand in his and lacing their fingers together. “Be patient with yourself. You’ve come so far in such a short time.”

“I—I feel like I’m always on the edge of falling backwards,” Loki says, frustration and fear making his voice shake. He lifts his head and meets Thor’s eyes. “I don’t want to be—I don’t want to be who I was again. I don’t want to go back to that.”

Thor nods and says, “Every time you feel like that, tell me. Kiss me. Let me remind you.”

“I want to kiss you now,” Loki says, turning towards Thor. He places a hand upon Thor’s thigh and lets his weight settle into it.

“I’m all yours, my love,” Thor says, and smiles against Loki’s kiss. He lets Loki deepen it, placing a hand on Loki’s neck and stroking gently, his other hand going to Loki’s hip.

“Do you truly love me?” Loki asks when they pull away, voice small. “Truly?”

“With all I am,” Thor says, rough with emotion. The expression on his face is raw, open.

Loki studies Thor’s face with wide eyes, then shakes his head, mouth twisted ruefully. “Why? How?”

“How does the sun know when to rise and when to set? How does the tide know when to rise and fall? I love you because it is how I know to be, Loki.”

Loki stares at him for a long moment, stunned.

“Thor,” he whispers, pressing a hand to Thor’s cheek.

Thor turns his face to kiss Loki’s palm, and Loki feels tears start to trickle down his cheek.

“I love you too,” Loki says, weeping, “It terrifies me. Part of me still thinks I am not—not allowed. That I will be punished for this. For daring to love you when I am—I am—”

“You are Loki,” Thor says softly, “and I love you.”

Loki sobs. He nods, wiping away his tears.

“I love you,” he tells Thor. “I love you.”

They sit together for a long time. The sun slowly makes its way down into the sea, and Loki breathes deeply as he is cloaked in the warmth of its dying rays.

—

They go down to the sea as the sun sets, stripping off their clothes and wading into the water. Under their feet, seagrass coils around their toes and ankles, and sea stars tickle their soles. Thor lays on his back and Loki lays his head on Thor’s chest and they drift, uncaring of the currents, of the waves that lash against their bodies.

The rising tide pushes them back to shore again, and they dry off, laying in the sand, and sleep in the growing darkness.

They are awoken as the sun is rising—Loki wakes up first, body going stiff as he realizes something is wrong. Thor is awake a moment later, and they both turn to each other in understanding. Loki magics clothes on them and they rise, together. There are fishermen at sea already, and they wave to Thor and Loki as they make their way up the winding staircase along the cliffside. Loki’s stomach twists in worry. Something is wrong and he doesn’t want these people getting hurt.

When they reach the top of the cliff, Loki stiffens.

The air is too cold.

Loki opens his mouth to warn Thor, and he is tackled to the ground by a creature much larger than he is.

The Jotun wrestles him onto his back, and brings a blade down on him. Loki only barely manages to stop it, summoning two knives in his hands to catch the blade before it can land.

“Loki!” Thor calls out, in the middle of a brawl among four Jotnar.

“Bit busy right now!” Loki calls back, gritting his teeth.

“You will die, _nithing_ ,” the Jotun growls, before he is speared through by another sword of ice, running him through his abdomen.

Loki wheezes as the dead body falls on him, and he shoves it off with a shudder, before pushing himself up on his elbows to see his savior. A Jotun, the same size as he is. Loki’s eyes widen in recognition.

“Long time no see, my prince,” Angrboda says, and he flicks his blade clean of blood.

“Traitor!” screams another Jotun, and runs towards them. Lightning strikes him down before he can get very far, and Thor emerges from a pile of Jotnar with his sparks running down his arms, his eyes filled with the storm.

“Stop! Everyone, stop!” Angrboda yells to the crowd. “We agreed we would speak to Loki before we brought him back to Jotunheim!”

“We were _ordered_ to bring his _body_ back!” Another Jotun growls back, swinging a mace of ice.

“He is Loki, son of Laufey, and he is the rightful heir to the throne!” Angrboda shouts. “He is our king!”

“That sure isn’t our king, Jotun,” Tala says, running up and firing five rounds up into the sky. “We bring one Jotun into this place and you all think you’re invited!”

“Thrym has lied to us, can’t you see!” Angrboda says, as more Jotun rush towards him. Others, confused, come to his aid.

“What the hell is going on!” Thor roars, smashing Mjolnir into the head of a Jotun while he summons lightning to streak through the sky.

“We were sent here to kill Loki!” Angrboda says brightly. “But I thought—” here he ducks under a blade and uses a blow of seidr to send his opponent flying “—if Loki is alive, we should _talk_ to him first, right? I’m not going to go around killing potential heirs to the throne when Thrym has done such a terrible job of—”

“ _TRAITOR,”_ a Jotun roars, charging at Angrboda, only to be struck to the ground by a bolt of lightning from Thor.

“Always a pleasure to see you again, Boda,” Loki says, distracted. He weaves around the Jotun attacking him, ducking and dodging and using Angrboda as a shield while his hands weave thread around his fingers.

With a grunt, Loki pulls the threads apart, breaking them, and every Jotun apart from himself finds himself frozen in place. Loki’s seidr shimmers in the air, thick and green, for a moment.

The frenzy dies down immediately, and Thor picks himself off the ground, brushing dust off of himself.

He immediately walks over to Loki’s side, silently checking him over.

“I’m all right,” Loki murmurs, brushing a hand against Thor’s shoulder.

Around them, a crowd of islanders have gathered, watching from the doorways of their houses, others with guns drawn. Sigyn holds a blaster of her own, and she hugs it close to her chest, looking worriedly at Loki.

Loki swallows, eyes darting to Thor.

“Let me,” Loki says.

Thor nods, stepping back.

Loki’s heart pounds hard and fast in his chest. Of all the things he could have imagined, he never would have thought to see his people again, and never like this.

But he cannot deny them, cannot run from this.

Loki steps towards one of the Jotnar, still frozen in place. The giant’s head is bowed and he will not look Loki in the eye as he approaches.

“Ulfr,” Loki says. “Have you forgotten me already?”

“My prince,” Ulfr says. “I could never.”

Loki casts his eyes upon the other Jotnar, calling those whom he knows by name, one by one.

“We thought you dead, my prince,” says Jorund, bowing his head.

“Thrym told us you’d committed treason,” Angrboda says. “That you had murdered your family for the throne and that he exiled you for your crimes. Tell us it’s not true, Loki.” Angrboda looks at him with wide, imploring eyes, his blood-soaked blade clenched tightly in his hand.

Loki is frozen. A part of him is glad they have no knowledge of his slavery. Another burns in shame and humiliation. And yet another is incandescently angry. He can feel Thor shaking with it, can hear his breaths come loud and fast at the revelation of the extent of Thrym’s deceit.

“I am alive,” Loki says, slowly, “and I swear to you by the souls of my ancestors that my family did not die by my hand.”

There’s a murmur among the Jotnar, arguments arising between them. Loki is no traitor, they say. Thrym has lied to them. Loki is alive, and he is the true heir to the throne.

Loki is alive, he is alive, back from the dead. This is Loki, the son of Laufey, fate-weaver, cloud-dancer, he who calms the storm.

One Jotun growls above the others: “Then what are you doing _here_ , among these ants, when our people starve and pillage and fight amongst themselves, forgotten by our so-called king?” Aurnir snarls. “You are no better. Couldn’t tear your cunt away from the Aesir bastard who has murdered our people by the hundreds?” He spits on the ground, glaring down at Loki.

Thor jerks forward.

“Have care how you speak,” Thor says, baring his teeth, his hand clenching on Mjolnir, “You have trespassed upon Midgard, breaking the treaty. I would see you put to jail on Asgard for this.”

“Does this Asgardian speak for you, princeling?” Ulfr asks.

“He does not,” Loki says, staying Thor with a hand on his arm.

Thor huffs out a breath, but desists, softening his posture and taking a step back.

“What would you have us do, then, prince?” Baugi asks. “Are we to return to Jotunheim, to him whom you call a false king?”

“I can do nothing for you,” Loki says, helplessly.

“Are you not Loki, son of Laufey?” Angrboda says, red eyes gleaming. “Are you not Loki, wind-walker, fire-bringer?”

Loki swallows, his heart beating loud in his ears. He can barely think, can barely hear Angrboda’s words.

_What are you?_

With trembling hands, Loki draws his shirt over his head, then lets it fall to the ground. He turns around, meeting Thor’s eyes as he shows the gathered Jotnar the scars on his back. There are gasps, and more muttering.

“ _Loki_ ,” Angrboda cries, struggling against the spell that holds him in place, as if he would throw himself at Loki.

“I have been enslaved,” Loki says, turning around again. “I was made to forget myself, forget my birthright, my worth, my very name. All I know now is that I am Loki.”

“Loki is enough,” Ulfr says. “Loki, I would call king.”

Loki shakes his head, frantic. “I cannot lead you. I have nothing to offer. I cannot—I am not—”

He wishes to run away, wishes to jump into the sea and turn into a fish and swim until he can no longer swim. He wishes to run off the cliff and burst into feathers and fly to the horizon, to the ends of the earth.

“I cannot be what you believe me to be,” Loki says helplessly.

“We only ask that you be Loki,” Jorund says. “Nothing more.”

 _Loki_ , they say, their voices building up. _Loki. Loki. Loki_.

Loki wants to turn around and hide behind Thor. He wants to tell these Jotnar that he is nothing more than a slave.

He knows he cannot. He knows he is no slave, not anymore.

With a shaking hand, Loki lifts the spell.

One by one, each Jotun goes down on bended knee.

Slowly, Loki walks among them, accepting the necks they bare for him, laying his hands on them. Angrboda hugs him tight, his arms overlapping the scars on Loki’s back.

“My king,” one of the Jotnar says, younger than the others. Loki does not know his name.

“Not yet,” Loki says softly, laying a hand on the young Jotun’s throat. “But soon.”

—

The Jotnar take their leave of Midgard with little fanfare, disappearing into the portal Loki opens.

“When you are ready, my prince,” Angrboda says, placing his hands on Loki’s shoulders.

Loki swallows past the lump in his throat and nods. “I’ll try not to keep you waiting,” he says.

Angrboda grins, pressing their foreheads together briefly before entering the portal and disappearing into Jotunheim.

Ulfr goes last, eyes lingering on Thor, and then on Loki.

“You will not find support on Asgard, my prince,” Ulfr says gruffly. “Come with us to Jotunheim.”

“I cannot,” Loki says. “Asgard will be a powerful ally. I must try.”

“The return of your seidr was felt by our people. It was as if the universe had righted itself—Thrym knew he could not let you stay alive, not after that. There are already factions of our people who clamor for your return,” Uflr says. “We will join them, and rally around you as a symbol. Come home with us. You have been away for too long. It is where you belong.”

Loki shakes his head, raising an arm for Ulfr to clasp. “I will come soon. I must talk to the Council on Asgard.”

Ulfr clasps his arm, rocking him gently. “We shall wait for you,” he says, and then turns to the portal, disappearing within it.

When the last of the Jotnar has disappeared, Loki finds himself suddenly breathless, his knees going weak.

“Thor,” he whispers, shaking his head. “What have I done?”

—

The summons from Asgard arrives swiftly on the wing of a raven. Within an hour of the Jotnar attack, Munnin flies overhead and eventually settles on Thor’s shoulder, nipping at his hair.

Thor is called back to Asgard for a meeting with the Council, to be held the day after his arrival. The summons makes no mention of Loki, but Thor knows better than to think the Council has forgotten about him.

They linger as they pack their belongings. Ulfr’s last words linger in Thor’s mind. Something inside him tells him he must convince Loki to return to Jotunheim on his own, but in a moment of weakness, he ignores it.

He cannot lose Loki again.

“Are you ready to go?” Thor asks, coming up to the doorway and leaning against it. In the light of the dying day, Loki is set ablaze. Fire-bringer, his people call him.

Silently, Loki nods, turning away from the open window.

“I do not wish to go,” Loki confesses.

“Nor do I,” Thor says. “We will come back. We will find a way.”

“Do you really think I can do this?” Loki asks. “That I can lead my people again after—what I have gone through?”

“My love,” Thor says, gentle as he can, “I do not think you have a choice.”

Loki’s mouth twists, as if in pain.

Before he can speak, Thor continues:

“You are a good person, Loki. You know how to lead your people. You have been trained for this since birth. The burdens of the crown are great but there is none better suited to its weight than you. You know who you are. You know what you must do.”

“And what if I falter?” Loki whispers, “What if someone tries to—and I—”

“Then they will know how swiftly the king of Jotunheim dispenses justice,” Thor says.

“I am terrified,” Loki confesses.

“Anyone would be,” Thor says.

Loki sighs. “Hold me?” he asks.

Thor walks over and folds Loki into his arms.

“Whatever happens, know that I am at your side. Words cannot express my pride and awe at you, Loki.”

“Beloved,” Loki sighs.

After a long moment, Loki pulls away.

“We must say goodbye to the others,” he says, squaring his shoulders. Thor feels pride and fear war inside his chest. Things are moving too fast, out of their control. And yet, already, Loki stands taller, straighter. Already, he looks like the king that Jotunheim has always expected he would become.

When Loki turns to go, Thor follows him.

—

Sigyn almost doesn’t let go of Loki. He almost doesn’t let go of her.

She pulls away first, because he cannot.

“You’ll come back,” Sigyn says, tears in her eyes, chin held high. She nods, as if that is final.

Loki kisses her forehead. “I will try,” he says.

The Bifrost calls them back as they walk towards their cliff, their bodies disappearing into shimmering light as they look upon the sea.

—

The moment Loki steps back into the palace, he feels his breath catch in his throat. He can feel the stares, the way people stop in their tracks to watch him and Thor as they make their way to Thor’s chambers. How _arrogant_ he is, how _bold_ , to walk by Thor Odinson’s side as if he is his equal.

 _I am_ , Loki tells himself. _I am Loki, and I am a prince, and I am Thor’s lover, and we are equals._

But he cannot help but feel his chest constricting, his heart pounding hard. Just beyond that wall is the courtyard where his back was flayed open. And down that hall, the library where he was attacked.

And in Thor’s bedroom, imprints of his knees on the carpet, on the ground, the memories weighing down Loki’s neck, compelling him to bow his head, to kneel.

He can feel himself shaking as they enter Thor’s room, and he fights to stay upright.

Even looking at his bed seems wrong, like looking at a tapestry from the back, looking at the mess of threads and trying to piece the picture it makes.

The last time Loki slept there, he was a slave.

He turns to Thor and says, tight with distress, “I can’t be here. I can’t _breathe_ here. I can’t—Th—” his breath catches and he forces himself to say it, to address Thor by name when his panic threatens to choke him.

“ _Thor_ ,” he says, looking at Thor through eyes blurred by tears. He lifts a shaking hand to wipe at his cheek, and Thor catches it gently, thumbing Loki’s tears away himself.

“I know, dear one, I know,” Thor says, mournful. “I’m so sorry. I am here. You are safe.”

Loki presses himself blindly into Thor’s arms and shakes, gritting his teeth, hating himself for his weakness.

“I don’t want to be here,” Loki says.

“Nor do I, beloved,” Thor says. “But your people are waiting for you. You must be strong.”

“How?” Loki cries, “I was a fool to think I could return to Jotunheim! A fool to think I could be _king_ when I can barely control myself—”

“Loki,” Thor says firmly, pressing a hand to the side of Loki’s neck. “My love, breathe. Breathe.”

Loki nods frantically, taking in one gasping breath, then another, and another.

He knows not how long he and Thor stand in the middle of his room, pressed tightly together, but eventually Loki loosens his grip on Thor and takes a small step back.

“I’m sleeping in your bed tonight,” he tells Thor.

Thor only nods, leaning close to press a kiss to Loki’s forehead.

“Anything you need,” Thor says.

Loki closes his eyes and nods.

“Thank you,” he says, kissing Thor softly on the mouth. Of course, then he cannot stop himself, and he and Thor spend many more moments kissing, until Loki pulls away with a soft sigh.

“We should kiss in every corner of this room,” he says. “Wipe out the bad memories with better ones.”

“That can be done,” Thor says, and takes a step closer, pulling Loki to himself.

Loki looks up at him with a confused smile, then laughs as Thor begins to hum, leading Loki through a slow waltz around the room, their bodies drawn close together.

They stumble and laugh, bumping into tables and chairs, because it is difficult to find their way around the room when they refuse to tear their eyes from each other.

“Beloved,” Loki sighs, when they have danced their fill. He kisses Thor, again, because he can never have enough of it.

Slowly, Loki leads Thor backwards until the back of Thor’s knees hit his bed. He sits down on it, still tilting his head up to kiss Loki.

“Is this all right?” Thor asks, when he lays back and pulls Loki on top of him.

Loki looks down on him and traces his cheekbone, his eyebrows.

“Yes,” Loki says.

He straddles Thor’s waist, leaning down to nuzzle at Thor’s neck and to press kisses to his cheek. They grind their hips against each other, sighing into each other’s mouths, their hands going into each other’s hair, stroking, tangling, pulling.

When Thor comes, it catches him and Loki by surprise. He gasps, open-mouthed against Loki neck, hips jerking of their own accord as he sucks on Loki skin.

“Mmm,” Loki hums, pushing himself away lazily, settling on folded arms atop Thor’s chest.

“Good?” he asks, and Thor grins sheepishly. The blush on his cheeks is beautiful. Loki never wants to stop looking at him.

“Very good,” Thor says, playing with a strand of Loki’s hair.

“I have an idea,” Loki says, and Thor nods readily. He lets out a small, “ _oh_ ,” when Loki shimmies out of his pants and slowly crawls up Thor’s body, until his cunt is above Thor’s face.

“Norns, Loki. Thank you,” Thor breathes earnestly, then places his hands on Loki’s thighs and spreads them apart just a bit further. And then he presses his tongue right up against Loki’s slit and licks into him.

“ _Ahh,_ ” Loki gasps, grinding down on Thor’s face. “ _Oh_ , Thor, mmm— _ah_ —” Loki slides a hand down to his cock to stroke himself off, fucking into his fist and then down onto Thor’s mouth.

He rides Thor’s face in deep, even thrusts, one hand on the headboard to steady himself.

When he comes, he comes with Thor’s name on his lips, Thor’s mouth on his cunt, Thor’s hands on his thighs.

They sleep curled up together in Thor’s bed, like they used to do, before. As Thor drifts to sleep, Loki presses close, and he thinks: _no matter what happens, I am glad to have had this._

To ponder on what had come before no longer fills Loki with nameless terror. It is a deep ache, difficult to breathe through, but not impossible. He was a prince, and so he is now. He was Thor’s lover, once, and so he is now. For a time, he was a slave. And now, he has granted himself freedom. For a time, he thought himself unworthy. And now, he has allowed himself to love and be loved in return.

He was Loki then, and Loki when he was a slave, and he is Loki now.

Somehow, it has been enough. Perhaps that is all he needs to be, and nothing more.

—

There is no seat for him at the Council.

 _Of course_ , Loki thinks. He is expected to stand. No, he is expected to kneel beside his master’s chair. Thor, disgruntled, offers Loki his seat and stays standing himself. Loki takes it.

“Thor Odinson,” Odin starts as the meeting begins. “You have been called back from Midgard to return to your duties as crown prince of this realm. The Council is here to discuss the incident concerning the Jotnar raiding party on Midgard. You may begin.”

“Thrym has violated the treaty,” Thor says, “by sending a raiding party to Midgard to assassinate the true heir to the throne of Jotunheim, Loki, son of Laufey. His already tenuous claim to the throne would crumble entirely if Jotunheim knew their prince still lived.”

“Thrym sent a letter yesterday, demanding the return of the slave Loki. He threatens war if the slave is not returned within a week,” Tyr says, tossing the letter on the table. Nobody moves to touch it.

“This is preposterous,” Bragi says. “Jotunheim’s inner affairs have nothing to do with us. Give the Jotun to his people and let us be done with this.”

“Thrym is untrustworthy,” Thor says, voice shaking in anger, “he has already violated the treaty; he has shown he does not honor this alliance.”

“And what course of action do you suggest we take, Loki?” Idunn asks, addressing Loki directly.

“You would ask the opinion of a _whore_ ,” Galli scoffs.

“This _whore_ ,” Loki says calmly, “has been within Asgard’s council chambers numerous times before. I was on this Council before even you, Galli Skirfirson.”

“Loki has a petition to bring to the Council,” Thor says, before Galli can react. The man has turned red around the ears, his hands clenched to fists.

“We will hear it,” Odin says.

Loki stands, despite his trembling legs.

He meets the eyes of each member of the Council, and takes a deep breath.

“I ask for Asgard’s aid. As Jotunheim’s prince and its rightful heir, I swear to forge an alliance with Asgard that would not be so easily broken. In return, I ask for Asgard to support my claim to the throne.”

There is silence in the Council chamber.

After a tense moment, Galli starts to laugh. “You think this _whore_ can be _king_?” he scoffs, looking around the Council with amusement.

“Loki is more worthy than you will ever be,” Sif hisses, slamming her sword on the table. “I support his claim.”

“As do I,” Idunn says softly.

“Aye,” says Frigga.

Thor places his hand on Loki’s shoulder. “I support Loki,” he says.

“Is his cunt that good, Odinson?” Galli laughs, then gasps when the temperature in the room plummets.

Loki stares at him, back straight, hands on the table. A shard of ice, thin and sharp, appears between his fingers.

Galli coughs behind his hand, and looks away.

“Nay,” Tyr says, shaking his head. Bragi follows suit. Fenja and Gefon both shake their heads.

The members of the council turn to Odin. Thor’s hand tightens on Loki’s shoulder.

Slowly, Odin shakes his head.

—

Lunch is a silent affair. Thor and Loki take it in Thor’s personal dining room instead of in the library. Loki pulls out his own chair and sits on it resolutely. He eats. Chews and swallows. The clink of their silverware on porcelain is loud and awkward.

“I will not let them give you away,” Thor says, after a while, pushing his plate away.

“I am not yours to give away,” Loki says softly.

“Marry me,” Thor says, reaching out to place his hand on Loki’s.

Loki’s throat goes dry.

“Oh, Thor,” he says, shaking his head.

“It will secure a place for you on Asgard—I can rally support for your claim and you will be safe as my consort. Loki, it is the only way.”

“There is another,” Loki says.

Thor stares at him.

“I will go to Jotunheim,” Loki says.

Loki sees Thor’s expression fall, his throat bobbing as he swallows. His eyes, filling with sorrow.

“I cannot ask you not to leave,” Thor whispers, defeated. “Only...think upon it, beloved.”

Loki nods, squeezing Thor’s hand.

“I will,” he says.

He already knows what he must do.

—

The next morning, Loki is gone. There’s a note on his side of the bed. Thor feels Loki’s seidr like a thread, breaking apart and whispering into nothing as Thor opens the folded piece of paper.

“Thank you, Thor. Always know that I love you. Do not try to find me,” it says. Nothing more.

Grief bursts his chest. Before he can stop himself, a sob tears out of his throat, then another, and another, until he is bent over nearly in half as his body shudders in sorrow. The pain is impossible. It threatens to swallow him whole, lightning running up his fingers and arms, crackling along his shoulders and winding into his hair.

Thor grits his teeth and pushes it down, clenching his hands into fists. He lost himself to his grief, once. Never again. Loki is alive, and that is something.

Not all is lost.

He goes to Midgard, desperate, and finds traces of Loki in the home they shared. They had left so quickly before, and hadn’t had time to take everything with them. There’s a teacup by the sink, and Loki’s favorite book tucked underneath his pillow. Loki’s bed, still unmade, taunts Thor. He sleeps on the couch instead.

He speaks with Tala, and Biya, and finds that Loki had returned to Refugio before Thor.

Tala pats his shoulder. Biya says, “We talked. But I can’t tell you any more.”

“Will you tell him I miss him?” Thor says, voice rough.

“Do you think that would help him?” Biya asks. Thor closes his eyes and shakes his head.

A typhoon rolls in, called by Thor’s grief, and lasts until Sigyn bangs on his door and tells him to call it off.

At the first beam of sunlight at the end of the week, Thor wearily returns to Asgard.

A month later, word from Jotunheim arrives: Thrym has been murdered.

Immediately after, news from Heimdall comes: Jotunheim has closed its borders, and the realm has shrouded itself from his eyes.

The Council is in disarray. Thor sits quietly amongst them and thinks, _oh, beloved_ , barely able to keep himself from weeping in relief.

—

“My king? Loki? Loki!”

Loki blinks, shaking himself from his stupor.

Angrboda purses his lips, worry written into his brow. He holds a plate of food in his hands, but the plate he left for Loki’s midday meal still sits on the side of his desk, untouched.

Loki bites his tongue to stop the apology he feels compelled to give, and instead inclines his head towards Angrboda.

“Yes?” he asks.

“Are you all right?” Angrboda asks, blunt.

“It’s just nerves,” Loki mutters, turning away to look out the window again. Down in the courtyard, a crowd gathers: soldiers and footmen and other members of Loki’s household.

As the seasons shift from the Thawing to the Meltwater, when the lower cities would be flooded, they would move north, in a tour of the kingdom. Not Loki’s first, but his first as king.

It has been three months since his coronation.

“The northern tribes are eager to see our new king,” Angrboda says with a gentle smile. “You have nothing to worry about, sire.”

Eager to see their king, the Jotun prince who had appeared from the dead and slain the usurper.

People called him the “savior-king.”

Loki still fights not to flinch at loud noises.

“My King,” a guard says, stepping into place outside the doorway. “The men are ready.”

Loki nods, and turns from the window.

His people await.

—

Jotunheim is splendid during this season. Loki is in awe of it, at the rising mountains, made from the bones of Ymir, and the unfathomable, endless sea of his tears.

The _vildankka_ , wild feathered beasts, head north for the Meltwater, away from the rising waters. Loki and his household follow the flocks, so numerous that their bodies darken the sky.

Traveling for the Meltwater has always been one of Loki’s greatest pleasures. Sinika, the great elk he rides upon, has been in his family for generations. He was ecstatic to know she lived still.

In every settlement they enter, they are greeted warmly. Loki is popular among the people. Not only, to his surprise, because of his mythical status as a king brought back from the dead. They recognize that he has worked ceaselessly to bring peace to the land, and now fulfills his promise to travel throughout the kingdom to speak personally to his people and address their needs.

Many of their needs are basic, long ignored by Thrym in favor of warmongering and greedy money-hoarding. They ask for peace, food, land. Loki draws up maps to delineate territories, settles feuds, orders the protection of major roads to revitalize trade and commerce.

There is so much to be done, and so he throws himself wholly into his responsibilities, relishing his own competence, the control he finds himself wielding.

Not a day goes by the he does not think upon Thor.

—

In the capital, no one would be so bold with the king, but the Northern tribes operate on familiarity and openness.

Still, it doesn’t stop Loki from panicking and throwing up a ward when Svadilfari gets too close one evening, almost pinning Loki to a column out in the balcony.

“Forgive me, my liege,” Svadilfari says, going down on one knee as Loki stumbles backwards.

“It is all right,” Loki says, though his heart is pounding like a rabbit’s, caught in the jaws of a wolf.

Svadilfari keeps his head bowed, though Loki can see he is confused.

“My reaction was unwarranted,” Loki says, swallowing, “I know you meant no harm.”

“So the rumors are true,” Svadilfari says. “I apologize, my liege.”

Humiliation floods Loki. He has not heard the rumors himself, but it is no surprise that they would swirl among his people. Loki does not let anyone near him. Loki does not take lovers. Loki was on Sakaar for his exile. It does not take much to piece things together.

“Yes,” Loki whispers, unable to say anything more.

“You are still in love with the Odinson,” Svadilfari says.

Loki blinks in surprise, and lets out a cough.

“I—” he starts, then stops. He looks at Svadilfari, dark where Thor is golden, blue where Thor is pale.

He would be a good match, Loki knows. And he is right here, on his knees in front of Loki. How easily he had kneeled.

Loki thinks of touching him, and has to fight a shudder.

“Yes,” he says again, and turns to walk away.

—

Three years later, Thor is at his desk. He looks over the document in his hands: it is a proclamation banning slavery in all its forms on Asgard. The ink on it is still wet. Thor knows the words in this document by heart, by now. It is his first edict as king.

He sets the paper aside when a raven lands on his shoulder and caws for attention, nipping at his ear.

“All right, all right,” he murmurs, untying the letter from its leg as it squawks impatiently.

Newly-crowned, a month into his kingship, and he is already beyond weary of political correspondence.

The raven’s feathers are wet, though the sun shines bright outside, in the late autumn of Asgard. They have not had their first snowfall yet.

Thor swallows, and his heart begins to pound, a desperate rhythm, a plea. He turns the letter over.

It is an invitation. It bears the insignia of the Jotun Royal Family, and Thor’s hands are shaking as he holds it. He runs a finger over the insignia and gasps when he feels Loki’s seidr, sharp and strong, run up his fingertips.

Thor opens it, eyes already blurring with tears.

He reads it once, and then again, and then a third time, then tucks the letter into his breast.

He takes a deep breath to compose himself, taking Mjolnir from his belt. Then he leaps out the window, flying towards the Bifrost.

“It’s cold in Jotunheim this time of year,” Heimdall comments, sheathing his sword into the Bifrost mechanism as Thor races in. “And you have duties to see to as king.”

“Then let’s get this done as soon as possible,” Thor says, raising an eyebrow.

“Good luck,” Heimdall says dryly.

Before Thor can reply, the Bifrost roars to life.

—

The _valaisin,_  the House of Light, home to Jotunheim’s Royal Family, is as Thor remembers it. Ice refracts light into rainbows at every corner. Spun out of light and ice and salt and seidr, the _valaisin_ remains constantly alight, bright and shining even through these months of the Bracing, the deepest days of Jotunheim’s winters.

He is glad he had not seen it during Thrym’s rule.

There are no guards at the gate. There is no need. Thor feels deep, ancient seidr at work as he approaches—and passes through.

The halls are quiet, empty in the late afternoon. The few Jotnar who see Thor pay him no mind; Thor wonders if he has been shrouded from their sight. Truthfully, there is no space in his thoughts for worry or concern.

He lets his feet take him to where he is expected.

That same quiet, humming, deep seidr welcomes Thor as he steps in front of an unassuming door. He places his hand on it, and it melts away at his touch.

And there Loki is, sitting by a spinning wheel. His foot moves ceaselessly upon the pedal, his hands gathering spun fiber, delicate as light.

It _is_ light, Thor realizes. Loki is weaving light, holding it in his hands as if it were mere wool.

“Odinson,” Loki says, without looking at Thor. He sets the threads down carefully, and stands. He wears a thick fur robe over green leathers; Jotunheim’s winter is cold even to the Jotnar.

Thor cannot breathe.

“I was not expecting you so soon,” Loki says, as if he did not know the precise moment Thor arrived on Jotunheim. As if this weaving room did not have a perfect view of the Bifrost landing site through the window.

Thor stares at him, drinking him in. He looks well. Healthy and hale and whole.

“Thor,” Loki says, exasperated. Then his eyebrows knit together and he turns away, looking out the window. He places a hand upon the spinning wheel.

“It has been a while, I know,” Loki says, haltingly. “I had to—there were things I had to do, you understand.”

He pauses for a time, looking out into the dark sky of Jotunheim. The sun has set, and the realm’s twin moons hover over the bright aurora, the dancing lights.

“Do you have nothing to say?” Loki asks, turning to look at Thor. His red eyes strike into Thor’s very soul. “Do you no longer want me, now that I am no longer a slave cowering in your shadow?”

Thor shakes his head, tongue like lead in his mouth. He doesn’t know what to say, hasn’t quite drunk his fill of Loki, alive and breathing before him. The rise and fall of his chest is a miracle. The curl of his fingers on the spinning wheel is a wonder.

He doesn’t move as Loki takes his distaff from his belt, and shrugs off his coat. It cascades to the ground, making no noise.

“Fight me,” Loki says, baring his teeth. He growls, deep in his throat, a familiar Jotnar call for blood.

“No,” Thor says, raising his hands in surrender.

Loki roars, and leaps at him.

Every blow Loki makes, Thor ducks or blocks. They dance around the weaving room, overturning baskets, crashing into looms. Loki kicks Thor in the stomach and sends him flying into a loom, ruining an unfinished tapestry.

Loki grabs him by throat from the floor, and pushes him against the wall.

“You think me helpless,” he hisses.

“No,” Thor grunts.

“You think me _weak_ ,” Loki snarls.

“No, Loki—”

“Fight me! Strike me, Odinson!”

“I will not.”

Thor pushes forward until the point of Loki’s distaff is sharp against his chest.

“If it is revenge you seek, Loki, I bid you take it.”

“You arrogant fool,” Loki hisses, and runs him through.

Thor staggers backward with a gasp, eyes wide. He brings a hand to his chest; it comes away wet with blood.

“You stabbed me,” he says to Loki, and falls to his knees.

“And so the master kneels for his slave,” Loki sneers.

Thor swallows the blood in his mouth and rasps, “If you wanted me to kneel, all you had to do was ask, beloved.”

“You fool,” Loki says, voice breaking, “you absolute fool.”

Loki hesitates, looking down at Thor, before he hauls Thor up, arm slung around Loki’s shoulders, and deposits him, none too gently, on the chair by the spinning wheel.

“I’m the fool?” Thor asks, grinning, teeth bloody. “You stabbed me.”

“You were supposed to stop me,” Loki hisses.

“I’m afraid I don’t have that kind of power,” Thor says grimly, crying out in pain as Loki curls a hand around the end of the distaff and tugs on it.

“I’m sorry, but I have to,” Loki says, eyes flicking back and forth between his blood-soaked hand and Thor’s pained face.

“Do it quickly,” Thor groans, and grits his teeth.

“Look at me,” Loki says, cradling Thor’s jaw with his bloody hand.

Thor obeys, meeting Loki’s eyes. His gaze goes tender, full of longing. “Beloved— _AAAAGH._ ”

Loki winces as he drops the bloody distaff on the floor, pressing a swift kiss to Thor’s forehead.

“Give me a moment,” Loki murmurs, as Thor pants raggedly.

Loki pats at his pockets and finally pulls a small case from his belt—it is the tiny sewing kit he’d bought in Refugio. He takes from it a needle, threads it with a length of seidr, and sets it to Thor’s skin, stitching the wound into a mess of blood and skin and thread.

Loki loops his hands with thread, then breaks the web apart. Thor feels his breath catch as heat sears into his wounds, and then he gasps and breathes easy.

Thor brings his hand up to his chest and finds only smooth skin.

Loki makes a pained noise as he presses his forehead to Thor’s.

“Beloved,” he whimpers, cradling the back of Thor’s head.

“Loki,” Thor sighs. “Please let me stay.”

“For as long as you wish,” Loki promises.

“Forever,” Thor says.

“Asgard needs you,” Loki sighs.

“ _I_ need _you_ ,” Thor says.

“Jotunheim needs me,” Loki says.

"We can unite our realms,” Thor says, slow and careful. “Not in marriage—not now, or at all, if you don’t want that—but a true alliance. One not so easily broken.”

“We will speak on it later,” Loki says. “For now, I ask you for only one thing.”

“Anything,” Thor says.

“Kiss me,” Loki says.

And so Thor does.


	5. Epilogue

Refugio is beautiful in the Midgardian month of December. The sun and the waves are strong, and the people are festive, eager for the celebration of Christmas. 

Thor has celebrated the Midgardian feast of Christmas, once, in New York with his friends, and he has since then considered it to be a wintery holiday.

The lack of snow makes the people of Refugio no less enthusiastic about their red hats and plastic pine trees. There are lights strung up on every house, and lanterns in the shape of stars are hung on every palm tree. 

And this afternoon, as the sun starts to go down, Loki pulls up and off Thor’s cock with a pleased, contented sigh, rolling onto his back and dragging Thor atop him. Thor’s hand creeps down Loki’s stomach to curl into his cunt, pressing gently into the wetness his finds there.

“Okay?” Thor asks, rubbing the pads of his fingers against Loki’s twitching opening.

“Mmm,” Loki sighs, letting his legs fall open further, toes curling into the bed.

Thor slides two fingers to the knuckle into where Loki is hot and wet, still twitching from orgasm. Loki sighs deeply, rolling his hips into Thor’s fingers and reaching down to stroke his cock into hardness again. 

“Thor, mouth, please,” Loki gasps, hand already pushing Thor’s head down.

Thor laughs, catching Loki’s hand and pressing a kiss to his palm before shimmying down and taking Loki’s cock into his mouth, sucking hungrily around the head.

Loki squirms and whines above him, hand thrown over his mouth to muffle his cries as Thor fingers and suckles him to another orgasm, Loki’s ankles crossed neatly behind Thor’s neck. 

Afterwards, Loki sprawls, satisfied and sated, a hand petting at Thor’s hair. 

Thor noses fondly into Loki’s thigh and looks up at him.

“Was that good?” Thor asks, with a small laugh.

Loki slaps his shoulder. “You know it was,” he grumbles.

“Good,” Thor murmurs, closing his eyes and pressing a kiss to Loki’s skin.

“Good,” Loki sighs, happy, stroking the planes of Thor’s face.

They stay like that for a while, content and sleepy, distracted only when there’s a loud banging at the door.

“Loki!” Sigyn calls, “Thor! The Market’s made land!”

“We should go,” Thor murmurs.

“I know,” Loki replies. 

Neither of them move. Sigyn bangs on the door once more for good measure, and then she desists.

“You wanted to get those sausages? The ones they roll up with mustard and pizza dough?” Thor asks, rolling off of Loki and sitting up.

“I should work on the road plans,” Loki frowns. 

“We’re on vacation, love,” Thor says, smoothing a hand down Loki’s chest. He leans down to kiss Loki’s forehead. Loki subtly angles his head for more kisses, and Thor grants him as many as he wishes until Loki pulls away and sits up.

“Can you bring me the sausages and that peach beer you like?” Loki asks. “I really do have to look over some letters tonight. Send Sigyn my love.”

“You hate that beer,” Thor says, fishing around the bed for his discarded shirt.

“I like drinking it with you,” Loki shrugs. 

“Come with me,” Thor wheedles. “We’ll be there and back before you know it. Besides, the stars are beautiful tonight and the wind is going to be nice.”

Loki stretches his arms above his head, looking at the ceiling while he thinks.

“We can get those lemon squares you like,” Thor says.

“Oh, fine,” Loki says. “Half an hour.”

“Excellent,” Thor says, with a smile. 

—

“You’re a Jotun,” the shopkeeper says, incredulous, when Loki walks up to his shop. The deck is full of tomatoes, heavy on their trellises, piles of plump pumpkins and squashes, bowls of artichokes, crates of cabbages spilling out onto the floor.  

“That I am,” Loki nods, eyes sweeping over the produce. “Thor,” he calls out, raising his voice as he picks up a tomato and turns it over, “Can you find some pasta?”

“It’s two boats down,” the shopkeeper says, still staring at Loki. 

“Two boats down, love,” Loki calls out. 

“Got it!” Thor says, voice floating down the boardwalk.

“Thank you,” Loki says to the shopkeeper, and starts piling tomatoes on the counter. 

“You married or something? I didn’t know Jotun could marry earthlings,” the shopkeeper asks, peering over Loki’s shoulder to try and see Thor.

“Or something,” Loki says. “And we’re not from here.” He hands the shopkeeper some cash, pushing the tomatoes forward. “All of these, please.”

“Have a good vacation and a good night, I suppose,” the shopkeeper says, handing Loki a paper bag full of tomatoes.

“You too,” Loki says, flashing the shopkeeper a brief smile. As he turns to go, Thor steps up beside him, bag of pasta in one hand. 

“Oh, you got the corkscrew shapes,” Loki says.

“Your favorite,” Thor says, smiling.

They end up staying at the Market for far longer than half an hour, sharing drinks and food with their friends, dancing in the square, telling stories. Throughout the night, Loki breathes and smiles and laughs, as easy as the rise and fall of the tide. 

It is nearing midnight when they finally walk home, linked hands swaying to the sound of the waves. Loki stops in the middle of the road and leans up to kiss Thor.

“We need to finish reading those trade policies,” Thor teases, biting at Loki’s lower lip. 

Loki growls and wraps an arm around Thor’s waist, drawing him in tighter, kissing him deeper. Someone whistles as they walk past, and Thor and Loki pull away with laughter. 

Throughout the night, they read over the affairs of their kingdoms, empty bowls of pasta between the papers strewn all over the table. 

“I was thinking of getting a cat,” Thor murmurs, setting down a piece of parchment and rubbing his eyes. 

“Yes,” Loki says, nodding absently, eyes still on the report in his hand.

“Yes?” Thor asks, hopeful.

“As long as it can withstand the Bifrost,” Loki says. “Yes.”

Thor grins. 

“And I pick the name,” Loki amends. 

“Of course, beloved,” Thor says. 

“You’re coming over for the Meltwater?” Loki asks, peering over his papers at Thor.

Thor blinks, then nods. “If you’ll have me,” he says. 

“Of course,” Loki mumbles, looking down, the tips of his ears and his horns blushing purple.

“About marriage…” Loki says, after a moment.

Thor bites his lip.

“The Thawing would be a good time,” Loki says, keeping his voice light, though his grip on his papers has gone tight, creasing the paper. 

“Only if you want it, my love,” Thor says. He reaches over and places a hand on Loki’s thigh. It is a comforting weight.

“It would have to be during the Thawing,” Loki says continues, as if Thor has said nothing, “the Bracing would be too cold and we couldn’t do it in the palace during the Meltwater, and the flowers will be beautiful, I think, but we could always bring some over from Asgard if—”

Thor leans over to kiss him, stopping his flow of words. 

“Yes,” Thor murmurs against Loki’s lips. 

“Oh,” Loki breathes, shaky. He clears his throat.

“Yes to a spring wedding?”

“To everything,” Thor says. 

Loki swallows, his eyes stinging with tears, and nods.

“It’s settled, then,” Loki says, turning away, and going back to reading his papers, though the words blur before him. 

Beside him, Thor has grown restless, fidgeting in his chair. Eventually, he reaches out to run a finger along Loki’s horn, then stands up and leans over to kiss the very tip of it, making Loki shiver.

“Tea?” Thor asks, and Loki nods. His eyes feel heavy with the need for sleep, but his heart still races at his own pronouncement. Marriage. A wedding. With Thor. 

Something bubbly and wild unfurls in his heart and he presses a palm to his chest and another to his mouth, to smother the giddy laugh that threatens to erupt. He allows himself a few moments of silent laughter, in the end, and keeps smiling even as he straightens up, looking out the window.

Outside, along the horizon, tiny dots of light from the fishermen out at sea begin to come to life.

“Beloved,” Thor murmurs, placing a steaming mug of tea before him. When he goes to take his seat next to Loki’s, their thighs nudge together, and Thor slowly runs his toes along the length of Loki’s foot.

Loki’s head goes up, and finds Thor looking at him with a fondness Loki still fights hard to feel like he deserves. 

Slowly, light begins to break outside. As the new day starts, Loki places his hand, palm up, next to Thor’s. Thor’s hand settles on his, their fingers lacing together. It is not a heavy weight. Certainly not the heaviest he has ever had to bear, but the one he has worked the hardest to be able carry.

This, and other burdens too, he will carry with him through a thousand dawns. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is finished! Thanks for everyone who's taken the time to read and leave a comment or kudos; I really do appreciate it. I've had fun writing this 'verse and I know there's a few loose threads left—I want Loki to go and fuck Sakaar up very much, but I couldn't fit it into the story. So there's always the possibility of more to come :D
> 
> If you enjoyed this fic, please consider checking out my other works! I'm on twitter @sendaraven and on tumblr @ adaringdrinkerofdreams if you ever want to chat :D


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